Whatever Floats Your Boat
by Shoedonym
Summary: Emma sells books; Killian buys a lot of them - it was bound to happen. Even though the first time she saw him she had wished he hadn't come in at all. CS Book Shop AU.
1. Clichés

_A/N: This was inspired by my dearest friend Jess who works in a book shop and without whom I would have no one to spontaneously send me lyrics that eerily apply to Captain Swan and thus make me burst into tears._

_**Whatever Floats Your Boat**_

CS Book Shop AU.

The first time she saw him she had wished he hadn't come in at all.

She was perched, crouching, between a cardboard cut out of a dragon and a leaning tower of promotional pamphlets; stuck in a window display. There was a storm blowing haphazardly outside and with each person who lingered too long in the doorway a gust would rip through the shop, spreading the precariously presented pastiche into pathetic disarray.

Not that he had done that. In fact, aside from the rather loud bang of the door as he entered, he had swept in rather smoothly allowing very little of the wind to follow him inside.

No, it was more that he had brought the rain in with him. With each quiet manoeuvre around another browsing individual, he swaggered dangerously close to display tables, dangerously close to allowing the sopping state of his hair to make contact with the vulnerable paper of the books.

However, he had headed instinctively towards the second-hand section towards the back of the shop and eased her discomfort a little, far less concerned for damage done to books that had already been damaged.

Climbing out from the window with the attempted grace of a swan several minutes later, she frowned at the small puddles of water that lingered around the front of the shop, knowing full well her boss would have something to say about it when he returned from his lunch break.

The instant that she sat behind the counter, on an old and fraying leather stool, another potential customer burst into the shop, their volume much louder than the whispered quiet that was in store today – the wind followed them, knocked the dragon and the whole display she had spent the last twenty minutes putting back together toppled as a result.

"_Really?!"_she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

But he had heard her, and chuckled in response. She had not noticed him approach the counter, and so was a little startled by his presence – even more startled by his appearance.

She swallowed the uncomfortable feeling of attraction that dark hair and light eyes brought, slid off the stool, and gestured for him to put his purchases on the counter.

Four books. An extremely weathered looking copy of selected Coleridge; a dusty copy of some historical work from a period she'd never heard of; a lesser known novel by Daniel Defoe; and a newly printed copy of what appeared to be some sort of modern day Mills and Boon novel, with its tacky choice of colour and half shirtless model on the cover, the title reading _The God of Love_.

She blinked momentarily at the fourth option. She had been working in the bookstore for several months, milling about its wood panelled walls and nonsensical piles of books in the middle of aisles, answering often inane questions, and in all that time she had learnt to never judge or question someone's taste in novels.

After all, you should never judge a book by its cover.

So she stopped frowning at it – in what she hoped was in short enough amount of time that he wouldn't notice – and scanned the barcode, placing his books into a paper bag on the counter.

But he had noticed. He was standing across from her, head bowed and fingers absentmindedly scratching the back of his ear while he paid.

"I, erm," he started, a foreign cadence even in so few syllables. "I may have dripped on it by accident. Figured I should pay for it."

This time she blinked at him. She smiled gratefully, before saying something about how it really didn't matter, and would he like her to take it off his purchase. He probably should have bought it (_"you break it you buy it"_– her boss loved speaking in clichés) but his gentle customer consideration brought a warmth to her cheeks.

Before he could respond – his mouth hung open in impending response - their brief conversation was interrupted when her boss came stumbling in from the rain, ranting about the OH&S issue the puddles on the floorboards presented, and why on earth the window display was a shemozzle. He took the bag off the counter and disappeared out the door.

—-

Their next encounter had been a physical one.

She had not seen him in what was easily the most dimly lit section of the old shop, camped out crossed-legged on the floor with at least seven different second-hand copies of the _Aeneid,_seemingly trying to determine which one was in better condition.

Until she had stumbled over his knee and onto the floor behind him.

He scrambled to his feet, a string of apologies rolling off him.

"Bloody hell, I'm so sorry," he said once more in case the other seven times hadn't sunk in. "Can I help you?"

He extended his hand – studded with an array of large rings - out to her and she took it, allowing him to haul her back upright.

"I believe that's my line."

His face broke into a grin, little crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes – his appearance and his mannerisms once again setting her at ill ease. She ran a hand through her hair in order to try and gain some composure, her breathing a little uneasy from her fall, and more than a little uneasy from the sensation from the hand that was still gripping hers.

"Thanks," she loosened her grip on his hand, and as though he could read her frazzled attraction, he quipped an eyebrow before releasing her fingers. "Virgil, huh?"

He eyed his small pile on the floor, seven books all opened up at the same segment of text, his leather jacket squashed together in a make-shift cushion.

"Aye, I'm just trying to discern which one has been written in less, has fewer coffee stains, and which translation I hate the least."

"Yeah, well the writing shouldn't be too big an issue – my boss has a strict 'no student scribbles' policy."

He smiled again with his eyebrows, before bending down and picking up one of the books, flicking through it in one thumb movement, slowly enough to show an almost continuous colouring of red and blue inks in illegible annotation.

"Okay, well that one had nothing to do with me."

—-

He started coming in at least once a week, and mostly on Thursdays.

Didn't have classes, he had told her when she jested that he didn't have anywhere else to be, and although he didn't necessarily buy anything he always turned up with scruffy hair and a jovial disposition.

He – Killian, he had told her his name was Killian (_"Emma"_she had mumbled awkwardly in response) – had cottoned on pretty quickly to her dislike of her boss, most notably his clichés.

Her boss had been making idle chat with Killian one day at the counter, as he processed two Robin Hobb novels (new books this time, to her surprise) when he suddenly started a spiel of amazingly awkward fantasy related proverbs (_"…this one will slay the dragon of your fantasy thirst"_). Standing relatively behind him, Emma closed her eyes briefly in second-hand embarrassment, agony, and a vain attempt to control her impatience with the nutty old man. She opened them to find that Killian was smirking at her, one brow at a jaunty angle in understanding.

From thereon out he made sure to slip at least one cliché into each of their interactions.

(_"A smile today? Well that is one for the books!"_)

(_"Save your breath, love, I know this book is wretched, but it's required reading"._)

(_"Well at least there's a long weekend coming up – there's always a silver lining"_.)

She hated it (well, she wanted to hate it).

—-

What she hated more was the absent feeling in the pit of her stomach when he didn't turn up for two weeks.

Hated herself for getting attached, hated herself for missing his sly comments and the way he seemed to make her smile when she was having a bad day (God, she hated that he had made her start thinking in clichés).

Hated everyone who bought a second-hand book that wasn't him.

—-

Midterms.

He had had midterms.

She only knew this because he came in one day - looking strung out on caffeine with that mad look students often get on little sleep and too much information - desperately seeking a book. She had to tell him no, they didn't have it in stock, and watch as he pinched the bridge of his nose and take a deep breath, muttering a "bloody hell" under it. While Emma had not gone to college (didn't spend enough time in high school to warrant the exorbitant cost), she appreciated the need to buckle down and work, and therefore forgave him instantaneously.

Perhaps too quickly, but she had already considered her emotional reaction absurd, and it was raining again, the gentle patter outside mimicking the dripping water from the errant hairs around his forehead. She was reminded of their first meeting and she couldn't resent him when he looked like a wet puppy.

(_What would you even reprimand him for anyway?_She wondered to herself later on, again making her feel uncomfortable about her attraction to this relative stranger).

He strode out of the shop, his usual swagger lost to the effects of coffee, and wished her a happy holidays in case he didn't see her.

_In case he didn't see her._

It hadn't meant much to her at the time, but she soon realised when he didn't appear before Christmas.

—-

Emma hated Christmas.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. She loved the food, love the weather, loved the woolly clothes that it brought, loved the general atmosphere of warmth that seemed to surround the season – it was just the day itself she hated. So she was dreading it. Her roommates gone home to their families, and she was at work: both begrudging being there, and also thankful that it gave her somewhere to be.

It was only around midday on Christmas Eve but there was a manic bustle of mayhem and difficult customers who had left their shopping until the last minute, the mysterious scent of cinnamon infiltrating the air. Emma was thankful that her boss had allowed her a break from her other duties so that she had time to address her email enquiries: dozens of people asking to come in that afternoon for a particular book. Perching herself upon her faithful leather stool she manned some of the front desk at the same time.

_Inbox (54)_

Emma groaned pathetically, scanning the subject headings for anything that looked simple – and then she saw something that she had not expected.

_Killian Jones – Enquiry: read between the lines_

_To whom it may concern,_

_I am taking a literature class and need a book about clichés and popular lines and quotations. Preferably with mostly historical quotes, but with the inclusion of some modern. Would you be able to help me with this? Not required until the new year, as I am in England._

_Kind regards,__  
><em>Killian Jones<em>_

Ignoring all of the other emails she made sure she wrote to him first – firstly admonishing his excessive obsession with clichés, before telling him that yes she knew exactly which book, and he could feel free to come in when he gets back to pick it up. Finally, she wished him a nice holiday, hoping that England at least rewarded him with some snow (unlike here, she added), before addressing some of the other emails.

He replied back within half an hour.

_Emma Swan,_

_Thank you - you're my saviour. I will make sure I come back in post haste. I didn't realise you answered email enquiries too. What a jack of all trades.__  
><em>It is snowing, actually. If it is not snowing, what will you do for Christmas? I will have to build a snowman for you.<em>_

_Killian Jones_

_Killian Jones,_

_I'm going to ignore you every time you use a cliché. Just so we're clear.__  
><em>I've actually found a few books that might be of use to you. You're happy to use any number of them, but I would suggest steering clear of the one that uses old hat misogynistic quotes, such as "boys will be boys" and "women: can't live with them, can't live without them".<em>  
><em>Don't actually have any Christmas plans - no family around these parts. Will probably have a hot toddy or two and watch Christmas movies. I'm assuming you went home for family? I hope they are well.<em>_

_Emma_

_Emma,_

_Depends on the other quotes in the book. I can always scratch out unkindly quotes with a permanent marker. Actually, is this a service you would provide?__  
><em>Please see attached photo of my brother. Note: it is only early afternoon here.<em>_

_Killian_

The photo was of a man similar in appearance to Killian, passed out on a settee, an empty bottle of wine in clear view, and a Santa hat obscuring half his face, mouth open in what she assumed was a snore.

Emma snorted and accidentally spent half the afternoon emailing him back and forth.

—-

She relished the nights where her boss let her close.

On Friday nights the shop stayed open until midnight, though hardly anyone ever came in. The occasional drunk student would stop in for an impulse buy, but other than that, it stayed silent. She could turn the radio on to whatever station she pleased, thankful to be able to finally stop listening to the lute music her boss insisted on looping ("_music is the food of love, Emma"_) and settle herself in an armchair most nights. It was definitely more peaceful than her crappy apartment, with the boisterous roommates she shared it with.

Tonight was only slightly different. Outside a Winter street festival was going on, and the common outside was littered with lights, and sounds, and people, muffled marginally by the shop windows. Emma left the door open despite the cold, allowing the atmosphere outside to envelop the shop.

No one came in. It surprised her somewhat, expecting that more people around the square would mean more curious eyes – but no.

Emma didn't mind. Wandering the tall rows, letting her fingers slide gently along each book binding, half-heartedly making sure they were all in line. She heard the faint sound of boots walking along the wooden floors of the shop, barely paying heed. Her mind was a little fuzzy tonight: her yearning for escape twice as strong and the smell of roasted nuts outside settling her into a strange sort of melancholy.

"Fancy seeing you here, Swan."

It would have surprised her more, but his rough whisper was so familiar to her at this point. She turned around to lazily greet him with a soft smile.

"Of all the gin joints in all the world…"

He laughed at her response, before asking her about her holidays. They fell into a strange sort of companionship, wandering around the small shop as Emma tidied shelves (Killian eventually following suit and doing the same) discussing nothing in particular.

He told her more about college (or 'Uni' as he kept calling it), about how he was on exchange until the end of semester before he would return back to England. She tried (and failed) to not let this news affect her, realising that at some point their game of cat and mouse (_stupid clichés_) would end. Killian noticed the way her face fell – even if it was for only a moment – and made as if so say something about it. Instead, Emma pretended it had barely registered with her, and questioned him further on his major (_"Classics"_) and his family back home.

"It's just my brother and I. He lives on a small canal boat just outside of London."

While he continued talking about his brother, Liam, Emma noticed a distinct absence or even mention of parents. It hit her unexpectedly, the feeling of camaraderie she felt towards him at the realisation that they were both without parents. She wondered how long. She also knew that despite their emailing having aided a stronger familiarity between the two, she was not about to pry so far.

So instead, she listened to him recount – animatedly – Liam's penchant for blind optimism and how it extended to his being talked into buying too large a turkey.

Emma had long ago lost track of time. One lone musician in the distance playing an erhu seemed to fill the esplanade and the shop with a sombre emotion. The beauty of the moment, here with him in an easy intimacy, intensified the familiar ache that she had had all day deep in her chest.

She couldn't help but feel that the feeling was considerably worse with Killian here. She'd be kidding herself if she didn't admit that she had missed him while he was gone, and that the emailing and distance had (_damn it_) only made the heart grow fonder.

She stopped to rest against the table in the centre of the shop, upon which various books were neatly set amidst staff recommendations. Killian stopped and leant against it with her, a curious expression on his face, and a question in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" His voice so soft it was as though he had hardly spoken it.

"I'm fine."

Studying his face she was struck by just how openly he was looking at her. Their dalliance has been carrying on for months now and she wasn't really sure when they had broken that boundary between strangers to strangers-who-have-intimate-moments.

Because that's what this moment was. The dimly lit night, the music, the distance (or lack there of, really) between them – Emma didn't know what to make of it.

"I've just been remembering a lot today about some things."

"Such as?"

She wanted to tell him. Especially as he had just told her so much about his brother, but she couldn't find the words; didn't know how to express sentiments she had never had to say before. Instead she just seemed to be stuck in a staring contest, mouth slightly agape, pulse raising slightly (raising a lot-ly).

She hadn't meant to say it. Quickly realising where this conversation would go if she didn't reel herself in, Emma got up and moved to the counter, calling out over her shoulder – "Just thinking about being here, and how much I want to be travelling instead – it's what I'm working to save up for" - before reaching inside one of the cupboards to pull out two large books. She hauled them onto the counter, placing them with a soft thud.

Killian was wearing an odd expression: a mixture of disappointment and relief. Disappointment because she had shut down their conversation, but relief because he was not being dismissed. Pushing himself gently off the table, he sauntered over to her, blue eyes shining impossibly in the shadowy light, coming around the counter to stand beside her.

"I believe you requested some books?"

He leaned closer into her space, before peering to look at the volumes she had ceremonious plopped down.

A broad grin set into his features as he opened the second of the two to find a series of black lines marking several of the pages. Although there were many pages that contained no black lines at all, there were others that contained more black inked out marks than not.

"So it _is_ a service you provide," he was whispering in her ear as suggestively as he could. She rolled her eyes even though he couldn't see it before replying.

"I told you – didn't have much to do over Christmas. Although, if you don't buy it, I will have to."

Emma made the mistake of looking over her shoulder at him. They were far too close all of a sudden, she had forgotten that his mouth had been just behind her ear whispering insinuations moments ago, and all at once they were an inch away from each other and his face – _his face_– was looking at her with such adoration that she wanted to run. How he could flit from innuendo to honesty in a flicker of time was beyond her. The concept of personal space was a bubble carelessly burst by the intangible thrumming that pulsed between them and she was _scared. What was the point?_She wondered. He would be leaving in a couple of weeks.

Alternatively, she could kiss him. She could sway a couple of inches forward and just kiss him. God, she wanted to. She could smell something indescribable on him from this distance and it was making her groggy, and she wanted to kiss him; wanted to grab him by the collar of the same old leather jacket he always wore and swing him into her.

He stood staunchly still, breath coming out unevenly, hoping, waiting for her to make the move.

She never made it.

Emma in her desperation for an interruption noticed a distinct lack of noise. The erhu had ceased its melody and prompted her into wondering what the time was. She barely moved away from Killian, glancing at the clock behind them.

12:09

"I should have shut up shop by now," she whispered, still a little disorientated.

He moved away, sighing (_"In this world we are slaves to time" "I'm going to regret giving you these books, aren't I?"_).

Emma took the elastic out of her hair, and ran her fingers through, trying to ease her restlessness. Killian stared at her as she processed the books and put them into a bag until he swiped his card in a practiced fashion. He took the bag, purposefully grazing her fingers as she passed the bag from her grasp to his and made towards the door as they whispered a soft farewell (_"Nunight, Killian"_ _"Goodnight, Swan"_) looking both unfazed and unsurprised by her emotional and physical retreat.

—-

It had been an irritatingly long day. It was uncharacteristically muggy for late January and every third person had come in with either something sticky like ice cream or something dripping with condensation. Emma had no idea when she had started caring so much for the books she kept watch over, when she cared so little for her job on the whole.

Her boss had decided to leave early for a weekend getaway with his daughter and so she was resigned to the fact that this endlessly understaffed establishment would keep her there until midnight again this week.

As her boss finally flitted out the shop, after getting distracted three times (_"Right, I'm off – third times the charm!"_), Emma made her way to the counter to change the music once more.

There was something left on the counter however that caught her eye. A trashy romance novel with the title _The God of Love_sat there, its cover slightly bowing as though it had been wet, and a bright green post it note slapped on the front of it: a note from her boss. The note read: "Emma, please return this book, as the boy didn't want it anymore".

Picking up the book cautiously Emma turned the first few pages before her heart stopped – only momentarily – and then when it resumed it was beating at (at least) twice its normal speed.

He had scribbled in annoyingly beautiful cursive on the dedications page:

_Emma,_

_ It was raining cats and dogs__  
><em> You fell head over heels (literally)<em>  
><em> I may or may not have done the same (figuratively).<em>_

_ Take a leaf out of my book__  
><em> Wear your heart on your sleeve<em>  
><em> Drop me a line<em>_

_ Killian_

Underneath which, he had written a phone number. She didn't know whether to laugh or groan at his insistent use of clichés. She braced herself, smothering that part of her that told her to ignore his message, before grabbing the phone from the counter and dialling the number he'd provided.

"Hello? This is Killian."

"Hi, Killian, this is Emma from _A Novel Idea _book shop_._I'm afraid we have a strict 'no damage or writing' returns policy."


	2. Romantics

A/N: Seeing as you all made me cry actual very real tears with the kind words about the first instalment of this, I thought the least I could do was write a second part at your requests. I hope it lives up to your expectations. You're all precious human buttercups. Also thank you to all of you who reviewed, I want to reply to all of you but I'm not sure how to properly convey 'ASIDNOAU#*$ )$U(!) #JWSD i love you'. Also to everyone who sent me reviewed and messages in the form of cliches you're ridiculously the best.

_**Whatever Floats Your Boat**_

_Part 2: Romantics_

He said he was going to come in today and as a result Emma had been unable to sit down her entire shift.

She attempted to, multiple times, but the moment she had stopped moving her agitation got the better of her - the uncomfortable reeling in her organs took over, from toe to teeth - and she was forced to get up again.

The souls of her feet were sore as a result (at least the store was significantly less dusty), but she weathered it – the agony in them far preferable to succumbing to her discomfort.

Not that she had much cause for her anxiety (objectively, anyway). Their conversation had been vague at best - _("So, love, shall I return for the book this week?" "Whenever you want - we are open all week." "Well, when will you be next at work?" "Anyone working here can return it to you"_) - their words themselves giving nothing away, but it was their tones teasing that fine line between flirtation and casual conversation that gave everything away. At least on Emma's part her behaviour was a new give away – he had always been a shameless, shameless flirt. Neither of them openly admitted to anything and yet it was painfully clear that her dialling his number in the first place was an indicator of something.

And so he was coming in. Technically to retrieve the novel he could not return (_ridiculous boy_), but in an actuality that Emma was still uncomfortable with, he was coming to see her.

(Although Emma suspected for a long time he had been coming in for more than the shop's repository.)

He had also never come in on a Tuesday before.

Emma resented that the nearest high school finished early on a Tuesday due to sport, as it often meant that bustles of kids came in from the local indoor soccer courts, messing things about and speaking in shrill volumes she had forgotten were humanly possible. Today they were everywhere, bringing footprints of mud and melting snow in through the door. As they filled up the shop with the stench of sweat, mildew, and something distinctly adolescent – she hated it, could have sworn she never remembered high school smelling that way – she reshuffled a display of bookmarks.

She caught a glance of her reflection in the shop window, the echo of a sleety fall reflecting in its glass, and was grateful that she'd managed to restrain from running her hands through her hair too many times as she looked relatively unshaken and nonchalant.

Hardly had she turned around to realign books in the centre table of the shop, before she heard the opening, the closing of the door, and the familiar scuffle of boots on boards.

(It was his daft swagger than gave him away).

"Hello, Swan."

Turning slowly round to smile coolly at him she noticed his eyebrows were in their usual arrogant form today.

"Killian."

Weaving her way through a few giggling girls, fawning over something or other, she led him up to the counter, reaching blindly into the space under the counter where she knew the book was, and held it straight back out to him as he leant across the surface between them.

"Cheesy," was all she said, a coquettish challenge in her eye, the book hanging limply in her hand.

Throwing his head back in a chuckle, one reeking of smug satisfaction, he told her that he was going for something more along the lines of facetious.

"Cheesy."

"Perhaps you mean tongue-in-cheek?"

"Cheesy."

"How do we feel about romantic?"

Ignoring the blatant question coating his meaning, she simply informed him that he'd been spending too much time reading his books and living among the Romantics, and that life was not a Wordsworth poem. He disagreed. Actually, he disagreed emphatically (_"the Romantics are as brutal and honest and melancholy as you or I, Swan")_ extending his right hand across the counter taking the novel from her, and spending far too long brushing her fingers with his as he did.

The action made Emma uncomfortable (in a stubborn sort of way) making her tear her eyes and her hand from him, trying to ignore the vulnerable expression that replaced his aloofness. It was only then that the growing line of customers waiting to be served behind him even registered with her. He followed her eyes and seemed to understand, showing it with a small nod and a tilt of his head.

Killian then tore a single page out of the romance book in his hand, the page and note in question, making a gentle ripping noise. There were a few curious eyes behind him wondering what he was doing, a thought which she herself voiced - but he simply smiled, quietly slapping the page down on the counter.

"Laying all my cards on the table."

—-

Emma spent two days debating whether or not to put his number into her phone.

She spent another two stealing the courage to text him.

She was so mad with herself. Sitting at the kitchen table, tv commercials blaring at her, and moving pasta around with a fork, thinking about how it was Saturday and she still hadn't contacted him.

The torn page sat in front of her as she ate, glaring at her, reminding her of her failings. The whole thing was ridiculous and she couldn't figure out why it should bother her so much – he wasn't sticking around, she didn't want to be around much longer herself, and there was no reality in which she wanted to do the whole romance thing again, to emotionally do that to herself again.

Yet, there was this constant feeling of him in the back of her mind (in the back of her heart, really) that was becoming impossible to ignore. She wasn't trying to give him the run around; wasn't trying to keep him on tenterhooks, it was just that, well, she couldn't help but take a step to breathe - to recover - every time he pushed her with a gentle smile and a not so subtle touch.

(One step forward, two steps back, and a lifetime cursed to think in clichés).

Dropping her fork with a loud tinkling she grabbed her phone.

_There is nothing on TV tonight. Emma._

She didn't even have time to put her plate in the dishwasher before the crass vibrating noise of her phone startled her.

_Ah yes a television I've heard of those. Sadly some of us poor students cannot afford such things. Remind me what do they look like?_

She shook her head in amusement before replying.

_Big square thing moving pictures loud noises. (At least this explains why you buy so many books)_

_Sounds horrible I don't think it'll catch on. (I buy so many books because I like reading. Among other things)_

_Other things?_

_Other things._

—-

That was how it happened, really: they texted. Not a lot, but also not a little. Killian became a daily notification on her screen, a constant little thing in her day and still both of them skirted around the issue. He was now very aware of her trepidation, she could tell, everything he said consistently laced with mischievousness and provocative wording, yet each subtle push and each action a deliberate directive against her walls. Though she could also tell he wanted to address what was going on. The problem was, it had been two weeks since he'd conveniently attempted to return _The God of Love_and Emma had flat out refused to address the contents of the poem, a poem which now haunted the surface of her own bookshelf.

He still came in to the bookshop, eyebrows awiggle and saunter afoot. Killian had grown more familiar with her boss now with the frequency with which he visited, and as a result had seemed to grow a little tired of his cliché tirade. He would still slip them in if the opportunity arose ("_Quit wasting my time and choose which edition you want to buy" "I wouldn't dream of it, Swan, time is money after all"_) but he seemed to have changed with the tide, and decided to subtly (_subtly, her arse_) slip 'romance' into their encounters.

He would arrive, as per usual, disappear up the back of the shop (after grinning at her warmly) and eventually return with whatever books he intended on buying. It hadn't taken her long to figure it out, but each and every time he would make his purchases, he would change his mind at the last minute and leave a book at the counter; leave a book of _Romantic poetry_at the counter. Shelley, Byron, Blake – it didn't matter who it was, he left it without so much as a smirk.

She half had a mind to flat out refuse to put them back on the shelf, vindictively hoping that he'd one day run out of books to bring back. Knowing him he'd probably replace it with something equally as irritating – like model ship building, or something.

It was this very thought that entertained her one Thursday as he came bursting into the shop, a scarf unwinding madly about his face, catching a little on the stubble that was building there, and wearing a grin so broad and genuine that it only made him more handsome (and in turn caused Emma's stomach to stutter). Today she couldn't help but meet his smile with her own, forget about the on going battle of poetry in motion (_damn it_) that seemed to be happening, more occupied with the adorable little bounce in his step overtaking his usual swagger.

He'd seen the sign in the window.

—-

He was Liam's favourite author, apparently.

Some writer of nautical fantasy that had somehow imbued a seafaring passion of Killian's own. Emma hadn't read him, but had been responsible for unpacking the strange assortment of nautical bunting and large cardboard cut outs of waves that were supposed to decorate the shop because of him.

Surprise, surprise Emma was working the night of the in store reading.

Killian had arrived early, hiding his enthusiasm underneath a low mumble as he described to her what the novels were about. Emma couldn't help but notice that he rarely spoke of events or plots, but of themes, of moral lessons, of narrative construction – he was such a college student. Despite his English accent, and the proper sort of manner in which he described such things, he managed to avoid all glimmer of pretention.

(Emma suspected it was his shabby leathered appearance, and the gentle timbre of his stupid accent).

So she listened, a gentle warmth and an odd constriction rising in her chest the more he talked, the more he helped her set the chairs into rows, the more he manned the small drinks table.

("_You know you don't have to do this, right? This is my job." "I'm well aware."_)

Slowly people arrived, slowly too did her boss arrive with the author in question, and eventually the place was packed with a lively buzz. The reading itself didn't last too long, maybe half an hour, but it was the question and answer section that took place afterwards that ate up most of the night. She had been observing Killian out of the corner of her eye the whole night, carefully disguising his emotions, but she slowly watched as a blissful sort of joy took over the rest of his features.

He did not ask any questions (she was rather surprised at that), but he seemed far more content to whisper insulting amusements at the debates caused by others (_"Excellent waste of our time: love triangle suggestions"_). The two of them were planted and seated on an empty table at the back of the crowd, Emma's legs dangling and swinging (into his occasionally), and so each snide comment he made was whispered behind her ear, occasionally warranting the sound of a stifled snort from Emma.

Killian did not even approach the author at the end, when informally people milled around, debating, schmoozing, and geeking out. He had barely known what to say when she'd asked him why he hadn't, scratching awkwardly behind his ear with one finger some time later when the last drabs of people were dripping out of the store. Said that he had nothing to say, but given the way he had recounted the books to her earlier, she suspected it was the exact opposite and that perhaps he had too much to say.

They lingered talking more about books and boats, his brother Liam's involvement with the navy back home and Summer holidays spent rowing small boats round English canals, until finally they were the last ones left in the store. (_"Thanks for locking up, Emma, I'll see you tomorrow bright and early – the early bird gets the bookworm!"_)

What had been an easy night in each others company suddenly became stifling in the absurd silence of the shop (again).

Just silence and the sound of car wheels whizzing through puddles.

Inside, the only sounds that could be heard were the shuffle of money as Emma counted the till and the gentle scrape of metal legs on floorboards as Killian moved the chairs into a pile – but the awkwardness came from the knowledge that they were both alone together, with no pretence binding them (no book orders, no customers, _no shop_).

It got worse when they established that they coincidentally lived in the same direction and that it would only make sense to head off together.

As Emma slid the key into the front door, Killian standing quietly behind her with his hands in his coat pockets, and a chill night air nipping at her neck, she realised that she had never seen him outside the shop before.

The realisation hit her strangely, as though the books were an element of her emotional security, each page a brick in her walls - and now? Emma, satisfied that she had firmly secured the door (with a little kick), faced him, watching the dazed post-book-reading glee morph into a sleepy smile at her turn. As he motioned her lead with the slightest of bows, Emma remembered how the books had done little thus far to keep them apart, what difference could one walk make?

A lot. The difference was a lot.

There was nothing that Emma could use as a distraction. As a result each trod of their feet in the same direction felt like an intentional choice to not only walk along side him, but to simply be in something with him (it was a seriously daft thing to try and explain, but Emma felt it in every vein of her body – a feeling of fear, of emotion, of choice). Every so often his shoulder, cushioned by the thick coats of navy and red they were respectively wearing, would nudge hers in a movement that could only have been called incidental – except that she knew better. Knew from each crinkle of his eyes and each sigh at her teases that every move he made around her was deliberate (as it always was). She had been so skittish with him emotionally, and she had slowly observed how his tact had changed, so that his flirtations were less obvious (less cocky, but still absurd) and more gentleness carried in his tone. While she knew that he had been doing so, it was never so clear as it was in this quiet moment, the two of them dawdling down a snowy, dappled street.

And so he brushed their shoulders as she had skimmed his legs with hers hours earlier.

The notion brought a blush to her cheeks, and inspired her to nudge him right back (subconsciously, of course). They stopped at a traffic light and she, absentmindedly, put her hand on his arm in a plea of "_don't_" at a terrible joke he'd made. The reflex so oblivious to her, except that he stopped to glance down at it. Her hand instantly weighed several pounds more, and the effort to keep it there and make it appear casual was overwhelmingly difficult – but the pedestrian light changed from red to green, and she used the hand to nudge him gently across the street, inhaling in relief as she went after him.

He nudged her even more afterwards.

(On second thought, perhaps he wasn't trying to nudge her, maybe he was just terrible at keeping any distance between them.)

When it came for them to head in opposite directions _("No honestly, I'll be fine, I walk this way all the time" "I know, love, but-" "But nothing. You're so old-fashioned! Or are you just scared? Do you need me to walk you home?" "Ha ha, very funny, Swan. I was just being my charming self"_) they settled into a quiet. She had been too busy filling the silence by readjusting the position of her glasses that sat upon her head to notice how he suddenly stepped right into her space. Not that she was surprised by the move - he did it all the time. He said nothing. He simply reached out to loop a button around the top of her coat into its respective hole, tugging the whole thing around her a little more and purposefully being coy about the proximity.

When he looked up from his hands on her coat, she was gripped once more with the sincerity in his eyes and the fear it stoked in her heart. Despite the fact that he spent half his life throwing wicked grins and eyebrows at her, he was most dangerous like this: his features soft, and more elusive in the darkness of night, more vulnerable and emotionally accessible. With each time he looked at her in this way it became harder and harder to break the hypnotism between them.

Harder, but not impossible.

She broke eye contact and reluctantly took a step backwards.

"Goodnight, Killian."

(She should have kissed him).

—-

_Got a huge donation of second hands today yours for the taking._

Emma hadn't seen him in two weeks. Try as she might to convince herself that it hadn't been something she'd done (or not done, rather) she couldn't help but feel that she may have been evasive one too many times. _Wasn't this what you wanted? To not get attached?_She asked herself, swinging the swan charm along the chain it hung around her neck. His texts had eased off slightly as well, and that was why she now lay in her bed, knees curled high to her chest, staring at her phone.

_Yours for the taking implies that they are mine alone and free not sure you can promise such things. Don't tease a man about books Swan._

She would have been more relieved that he'd actually replied if she wasn't 90% certain he'd laced each section of the text with double meaning. She threw the phone under her pillow with renewed determination to ignore his moodiness.

Except that she had work the next day, and her boss had set her in charge of organising the exact donation she had texted Killian about the night before. Usually, Emma liked the back corner of the shop, pathetically liked the idea that the tattered old books with their fraying spines were still of some practicality, of some value. She didn't even mind that though the shop was reasonably clean, it always seemed to smell a bit more of dust back there. No, today she did not want to be here. Didn't want to be around the Romanticists that reminded her so vividly of Killian that she was now finding home's for on the shelves ("_Why the long face, Emma? It's only Longfellow_!). She was torn between being mad at him for backing away, and between telling herself that this was what she wanted.

Of course, Murphy's Law, the exact moment that she was determinedly trying to not think about him, he turns up. She sees the scuffed toes of his boots first out of the corner of her eye (don't ask her how she knew it was him by his boots), as she is crouched on the floor sorting out the William Blake that had wedged itself between some Thomas Moore.

"Don't you ever go to class?"

She tried not to sound too bitter at him – and failed spectacularly.

"Not usually on Sundays, no. Do you ever take a break from this place?"

She had completely lost track of what day it was. Working as frequently as she did (which was apparently open to mockery now), without any sense of a weekend, it all seemed to just muddle together. Usually, she gauged the calendar day by how busy it was in store, but it was strangely empty today and somehow it had tricked her mind into thinking it was mid week. Sighing emphatically she stood up, ready to snap at him about, well, she wasn't sure about what - but his face stopped her.

He looked terrible.

There were bags under the bags (under the bags) under his eyes, a despondent look desperately hidden (and yet very clearly peaking out) and he was striking an overly confident stance. He didn't respond to her enquiry as to whether he was okay, instead reaching out to grab the book still in her clutches – it was Keats. A doleful fondness overcame him as he flipped through the contents of the book, eyes never lingering, but taking in whatever it was they were looking for. Emma waited for him to respond with her arms crossed, brows similarly crossed in concern.

"I haven't been avoiding you, Emma."

He hadn't bothered to look up from the book, the flipping of the pages the only sound or even movement in the aisle (the familiar sound of lutes and dulled chatter barely there).

"I didn't say you had been."

"It's written all over your face, love," an inaudible, defeated sort of chuckle around his words.

"Please, I barely realised you hadn't been around."

"No?"

"No, now are you going to tell me why you look like crap?"

At that, he moved in front of her to place the book on the shelf in its rightful place.

"Let's not, shall we? It's nothing."

Moving the glasses away from the bridge of her nose to sit on her head, she considered him. He had always been so straightforward with her, so open, that his sudden evasiveness rubbed her the wrong way; made her on edge. There was a brash new kind of cockiness that was trying its best to cover whatever injuries lay beneath – but Emma was having none of it.

"I don't believe you for a second. Just tell me, Killian."

Suddenly, all charade disappeared from his demeanour, and while she could tell that he was trying to carry a sharp tone, to her well-trained ears it was just coming out rather broken. It made her worry even more for this boy she barely knew (although if she were being honest with herself, they knew each other far better than either one were admitting).

"And you'll what, you'll regale me with something of yourself?"

The biting comment and the way it was delivered had its desired effect, causing a frustration to rise in her chest and anger to spit forth from her tongue.

"And why should I tell you anything? We're not friends. You don't know anything about me, Killian. You come in, buy books, hit on me. I have no reason to trust you, why should I tell you anything?!"

She'd said the wrong thing, saw the way he'd winced at the word 'trust'. Her last words had almost came out as a threat, and she swallowed the feeling of her heart pounding in her throat. She had shot herself in the foot - _badly_ - and she seemed unable to fight her own stubbornness in order to rid the bitter sadness on Killian's face.

"You may not think you tell me anything about yourself, Emma, but that alone speaks volumes. I have no idea who hurt you, nor why it is you never speak of your family, but you have this look that –" he cut himself off suddenly, a softer expression forming as he decided to change tact, "- the pages of your life are wide open, Emma, you just won't tell me which bloody page I'm looking at."

They had been speaking in hissed whispers, but Emma found herself at a loss for what to say. Behind her she could hear the gentle movement of feet somewhere in the next aisle and yet it seemed too quiet compared to the buzzing noise the silence between them was creating, the twitching movement in his jaw drawing all of her attention.

"You have no idea what the hell you're talking about," she managed to stifle.

A beat, and then "my mistake," he bit back, before walked backwards a few paces, looking at her with a resolute sadness, and then disappearing, leaving Emma to stand in the aisle contemplating what the hell had just happened.


	3. Biographies

A/N: Do you guys have any idea how much I love you for the way you're responding to this story? I'm actually mind numbingly overwhelmed by it. Honestly, I don't know what to do with all the favourites and follows and reviews. You're all ridiculous, I'm sorry I haven't been able to reply to them all individually. Sorry this next one took me a while, stuff at home took a turn, and I got distracted accidentally sketching a scene from the first chapter (don't ask, I can't even draw)…

Moving on. Here is part 3 of this little ditty. Fluffy or angsty? I can't even tell anymore.

**_Whatever Floats Your Boat_**

Part 3: Biographies

Emma desperately wished the roles were reversed.

She had had the rest of her Sunday shift to continue being mad at him (some of the second-hand books were squashed into place a little aggressively, providing evidence for her emotional crime and state of mind), and then several days to think about how she'd overreacted. She knew that he had been right, knew herself that her reluctance to share anything warranted some sort of frustration from he who was always honest with her.

Well, at least he never straight up lied, but he could definitely teach a few things about evasiveness.

She also knew why she'd reacted that way - it was years and years of being spurned and only really knowing how to be defensive about it. She regretted that stubbornness and defensiveness were her default emotional settings, the switch jammed years ago and forced into place after certain life events. The frustration within herself – _at _herself – for responding the way that she did when there was something clearly wrong with him ate away at her.

_Really _ate.

And Emma didn't know where to find him to apologise, hence her currently wishing that their roles were reversed.

It was her biggest problem right now, and desperate though she may be to fix the situation, she was not going to be trawling around the college campus asking around every dorm for the distressingly dark-haired, leather clad Englishman (_God, don't let it come to that_). If he were on the back foot he would have come into the shop (leaving the door to clang loudly as he always did), a sheepish expression on his face and making a mess of the hair behind his ear, apologising with endless sincerity.

However, that was not the reality of the situation. There was a growing sickness in her thoughts that told her he wasn't coming back, as Emma had experienced was often the case. She realised only too late that she had been subconsciously testing his staying power, and the idea that they had both failed was weighing her down.

Her boss told her one day that that young boy of hers had been asking about a certain biography in a casual conversation, and it hit her in the chest like an anvil, or six, or twelve. Had he come in deliberately on a day when she wasn't rostered, or had he come in hoping she was, the book request a small extended olive-branched gesture?

Emma couldn't sit around waiting for him to need another book to talk to him again, and the only option that she really had was the number in her phone. Not really her first choice, but the last one left to her.

She spent a good day trying to figure out how to broach him, and settled on the simplistic approach.

Her Thursday night shift had been unbearably slow. The kind of slow where your heart physically aches with boredom, and Emma watched as the arched windows of the shop started to frost around the metal edges. It was cold out tonight, below freezing, and she was both desperate to leave work and reluctant to go out into the cold night air.

She had also spent the last twenty minutes gripping her phone in her hands, spinning it restlessly, waiting to come up with something to text Killian with. A few stragglers doing late night shopping were in, but Emma dawdled through the aisles, shuffling books and wondering what to type.

(Secretly hoping that the title of some book would jump out at her so she could use it in some sort of quirky but meaningful gesture).

Eventually, the impatience to finally get in contact with him outweighed her desire to come up with something clever to say. Leaning against a shelf of south-east Asian cookbooks she swiped a little message.

_Hey_

Little message was an incredibly apt description. After Emma had sent it she regretted it immediately – too short, too abrupt, too vague.

He didn't reply to her.

Three hours had gone by and nothing. She had been so desperate to right things that she stood at the till counting the money with her phone face up on the counter in front of her, watching to make sure she didn't miss it when - _if_ - he replied. Telling herself that three hours was barely any time at all did not help. There was a guilt inside of her that was making her sick, her mind plaguing her with reminders that this was not the first time she had pushed away someone who needed her.

She tried to swat those particular thoughts away, deciding to focus instead on the harsh Winter air swirling around her as she trudged home, and to focus on her travel (escape) plans.

Emma was only three blocks from the shop when she heard scuffling and shouting coming from behind her - but she had just walked passed one of the local college bars, and really, there were so frequently people drunkenly slurring at each other that she walked on without even thinking twice.

Until she heard the slurred swearing of an Englishman.

A security guard – a great, big, burley looking one – was standing between three men, trying to push them in separate directions, seemingly more concerned about defusing the conflict than the blood pouring from their faces. She walked back towards them, and around the two rough looking boys arguing with the bouncer.

"Killian?"

Her presence barely registered with him, too busy scowling over security's shoulder, before blinking twice to realise who was addressing him.

"Emma?"

The cut on his face was even worse closer up. Gulping and making a split second decision, she took his hand in hers, and led him back towards the book shop, listening to the lewd – and frankly sexist – slurs of the other brawlers as she led him away.

Led him away in silence - they did not speak as they walked back, did not speak as she let go of his hand to unlock the shop, and Emma only spoke briefly to tell him to sit. He heeded her direction, climbing onto the old leather stool that lived behind the desk, while she flicked on a few lights and rummaged around inside the cupboards looking for a first aid kit. He didn't appear to be mad at her, accepting her there without fight, but a dark expression still lived on his face, overshadowing any resentment he might be feeling. Of course, his dark expression was not helped by the bruising marks of fists that were blueing around his eyes.

(Although, the fact that he had gripped her hand in his for three blocks was probably a good sign).

He may not have been mad at her but she was definitely mad at him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Emma didn't look at him, instead focusing on coating a cotton ball with Dettol.

"I can hold my own. Think I gave as good as I got, given I was outnumbered."

He hissed when she applied the disinfectant to his wound, earning him an unimpressed look from her, as she dabbed the injury under his right eye and cleaned the heavy blood stains on his cheek.

Killian had spread his legs a little bit to allow her closer access to his face, but it wasn't until she had soaked her fourth cotton ball with blood that she became fully aware of their proximity. She was standing between him, face leaning close and focused on his cheek, but he had nothing to focus on except her leaning into him and neither of them had spoken in minutes.

She swallowed and tried to ignore the thickening of air between them (then again the air was always doing that, they were in part accustomed to it). The cut itself was small, but it had clearly nicked some sort of vein, as it was terribly stubborn to close over. She turned back to the counter, ignoring the bump his leg made to hers as she did, to find a band aid to cover the mess on his face with. When she spoke to him next her voice wasn't even forceful enough to echo in the empty store.

"What the hell do you think you were doing?"

He still said nothing.

At this point they both seemed to be ignoring the underlying tension that sat there like a third party, inflated into being from their earlier fight. He was resolute to sit there, eyes slightly out of focus, the remnants of rum in the occasional little open-mouthed exhale. Killian was clearly paddling between ignoring the nearness of her body to his, and being lost in his own thoughts. Emma hadn't really paid much attention to how drunk he might be, and absentmindedly wondered if he might have a concussion, but mostly she was just glad that he was here, bloody, bruised and all.

Even if he was swaying a little bit.

"What did they even hit you with? This cut is ridiculously straight and deep."

When she thought about what she would say when she next saw him (and she had thought about it), all the conversations she had made up in her head consisted of her apologising first – profusely – before gently trying to coax whatever was ailing him, out. Not that she knew precisely what she was going to say, but there was always a lot of attempt at expressing her emotions when she'd imagined it.

As it stood, she was too mad at him now, tutting as the cut on his cheek started bleeding again out through the edges of the band aid, exasperation taking over.

"Killian, what happened?"

He took a cotton bud from the counter behind her, peeling back the useless band aid - wincing a bit as he did - and held the cotton ball up to his face, sighing as he yielded to the wearied, worried and wrought expression on her own.

"Liam's in hospital."

Her heart sunk in her chest.

"Are you going to go back home?"

"He's in hospital - on deployment. They won't tell me what's wrong, or where exactly he even is, only that it's critical. Which they took bloody two weeks to tell me, and then they said they'd keep me posted," each word came out with a bite, as though every passing moment was a struggle not to be yelling at something.

Emma, still standing between his legs, hands fidgeting with a new band aid, suddenly understood that her own reluctance to tell him things was far more about him than it was her own secretiveness. Not really knowing what more to do, she told him quietly that she was sorry but getting into bar fights would not help him or his brother feel better (even if he shook his head a little to disagree). He was reluctant to meet her gaze, as bruised by the emotional conversation as the bruising under his eye. Emma pried the cotton ball from his fingers replacing it with a clean one, and turned her own attentions to a blood stain on his jacket.

"I'm sorry about what I said the other day. I've never really had much reason to trust anyone, and I knew you were lying; knew you weren't okay and I sort of just lost it. You know I didn't mean it, right?"

The words had rolled out in a breathless stumble, her tongue tripping over the hardest parts in a rush, and she hated how awkwardly they fell out one after the other. She had had a whole thing she had wanted to say, wanted to explain everything, to share something of herself with him in apology. The problem was that she had reacted to him in such a manner due to things she didn't want to talk about, and it made it complicated to know what to share – and it all died on her tongue at the small smile that grew on his face.

"I do now."

* * *

><p>Reaching behind her again to grab another dampened cotton ball, she attempted to swab the blood from his leather jacket.<p>

"About the other stuff though? You're a little _too_ perceptive," Emma determined not to look at him directly, the vulnerability on a level she was painfully uncomfortable with.

He chuckled, a toothy little thing.

"Now that, I did know."

Emma saw him three times before it happened, and it was only in an attempt at her own self preservation, but each time she tried to share a little something of herself with him.

As much as she liked him (and yes, she was willing to admit to herself now that there was probably something there, swarming under her skin and recruiting more members), and as much as she was in part doing it to strengthen whatever it was between them, she was doing it for herself.

Smiling softly and leaning across the counter as he always did, she processed the book he was buying – it was the book of Keats poetry he had skimmed his way through the week before.

He was doing a little better since that night. He had texted her (at her request, mind) to keep her up to speed on how Liam was doing. While he had not been told much, he had been injured by some shrapnel during some reconnaissance, and was at least out of their equivalent of ICU; out of danger. While his anguish was still present in the colour of his face, and the bags under his eyes (the bruises had healed surprisingly quickly), he was doing better.

But that scratch was definitely going to scar.

She had long since stopped putting his books in paper bags, declaring he had lost his customer privileges (_"What did I do?" "I told you to stop with the clichés" "I hardly think the punishment fits the crime"_), and she panicked a little because it gave her less time to come up with something to say. She thumbed through the book itself instead, lingering upon the introduction pages of Keats' life, finding something she could use as he watched her with confusion.

"He was orphaned you know - Keats."

"Aye, I did know that. What of it?"

She slid the tattered poetry collection across towards him, giving a shrug and a little upside down smile as she tore the receipt from the machine.

"No real reason. Maybe I should read the Romantics after all. At least, maybe Keats, he I might be able to relate to being an orphan myself."

She was never more grateful in that moment for his perception and the way he accepted the cavalier delivery in which she had told him this, each word said as though it were simply a fact, and not the beginning of a tediously lonely biography.

(Even though it was).

Killian's facial expression remained the same, but a knowing shadow shifted in his eyes and she knew he had understood her (not that she doubted he would). She had simply expected him to turn around, tuck the new piece of information under his arm along with the book he had just bought but instead –

"Perhaps, that's why I like him so much."

He had been so good at schooling his own face, but Emma failed in her attempt at this information. She felt her mouth drop open the teensiest little bit, unable to stop her eyes from darting between his eyes, to and fro. While Emma had suspected it a long time ago, the confirmation of it, the plain and simple connection that it brought between them brought a warmth to her cheeks, as though he had reached out with his own hand to touch her.

"Until next time, Swan."

* * *

><p>As luck would have it, the next clue; the next piece of backstory, was easily supplied (although difficultly executed).<p>

Her boss wasn't there that day, and Killian had been in a morose sort of mood, not saying much and using his thumb to spin one of his ginormous rings in irritation. So, she'd told him he could pick the radio station, or cd, anything as long as it wasn't lutes, or lute like instruments.

Except that he was indecisive, fiddling with the nozzle and skipping the stations after about thirty seconds.

She groaned out loud, perched on her faithful green stool, as he paused on a classic rock station. She had been quiet as he'd scanned the frequencies, and so her disinterested noise piqued his curiosity. When he asked her what the matter was, she responded by telling him, blasé as you like, that her ex used to like this song.

"Your ex?"

"Yes, my ex. Why are you so shocked?"

"What's the story there?"

He obviously knew he was pushing his luck, but at least he changed the station as he did it. Fortunately, a customer had come up to the counter, allowing her some time to form what she wanted to say. He settled on some old 50s pop station, before shutting the cabinet door the receiver lived in and leant on the counter, on her side of it, running his fingers through his stubble in contemplation.

"Is everyone a story to you?"

"Course, love. Isn't that what you're doing, filling me in on your memoir?"

(He was far too discerning and she was clearly realms away from subtlety).

Yes she had an ex, yes she loved him as young people foolishly tend to do, and he broke her heart – all of which she told him. Unlike last time, she felt a little more comfortable, the lazy Wednesday afternoon vibe, sans boss, and with him essentially hanging around simply to bond with her – all a little more conducive to heavy conversation.

She also told him how he'd left her to take the flack for a bunch of stolen watches. If he was surprised by her life of thievery he didn't show it. All he really did was ask her how long her stint "_in the brig" _was. Regardless of how hard the topic matter was (and it was, she tried to let it out unemotionally but each word she knew was tinged in bitterness and heartbreak), she almost felt like she was telling him as warning – an indication of things she would definitely not be putting up with again.

"And you? Who's on your tattoo?"

She had only seen it briefly one or two times, but it had stuck with her.

(Largely because she too had a tattoo on her wrist as a scarred reminder of the past).

She probably shouldn't have pushed him, his mood still grumpy (despite her attempt at openness, and despite the upbeat melody of the radio coincidentally playing _Why Do Fools Fall In Love?_) no doubt as a result of Liam's stagnant condition, but he had pushed her. He swallowed, his jaw twitching in the process and began blinking a little as he told her anyway.

Told her by rolling up his sleeve to show her the name _Milah _that permanently resided on his skin, told her about a heart condition (the name of which slipped through Emma's fingers as she heard it – an aortic something).

Told her about how if it hadn't been for Liam, he's not quite sure how he would have handled it.

She didn't prompt him into saying anymore, the grief of her death seemed to trigger a dark glimmer in his eye, the glimmer largely there due to the tears that welled. The conversation had turned much heavier than either one of them wanted, and sensing this, Emma removed her hand from his shoulder (and couldn't for the life of her remember when she'd put it there), and turned their attention to a crossword that she'd started earlier in the day.

"Come on book worm, help me with five across."

* * *

><p>The next time Emma attempted to share with him, she shared a lot more than she intended.<p>

It was far less complicated to slip into a conversation about how she had never really stayed in any one place too long, when he had brought up how he only had a month left in the country. (_"I'm no expert but shouldn't you be leaving in Summer?" "They're letting me leave mid-semester, some complication about compatible units. I don't know, I was barely paying attention when they told me and it was bloody months ago"_).

In fact, her longest stint was the place she was in now, stuck in an aisle, ripping open cardboard boxes of new shipments, counting down the hours till she finished her shift (and more importantly her two days off), and trying not to think about the impending absence of the boy beside her who was busy slicing through tape with a Stanley knife.

Everything was a little easier today, and Emma felt a little like her heart was skipping, each thump a light-hearted dance. The weather was getting warmer (she was only down to two layers and a coat now) and since mending the bridge between the two of them, their affections were coming more easily. This was the second time he had come into the shop specifically to talk to her rather than coming under the pretence of, for example, buying a Katherine Kerr novel.

And he was back to bumping her shoulder as well.

Emma heaved out some of the publications from the boxes, onto the table, and asked why he'd come here at all.

"Adventure, Swan – pure and simple. Why is it you've stayed so long here? Sick of running?"

She ignored the jaunty dig at her flighty nature, dropping the box she'd just emptied onto the wooden floor (with a little _phopsh_) and started taking things out of the one in front of Killian.

"Don't know, really. Needed money, wanted to go further afield, lost track of time. Travel is still on the agenda, just, gotta save first for what I want to do."

"Want to know what I think?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

She wasn't watching him but she felt him migrate behind her, scuffing his black, elastic-shafted boots and moved the box she'd discarded out of the middle of the aisle.

"I think you're still here because you've grown attached to certain people."

"Is that so?" She smiled as she said it, relishing a bit in the fact that he was back to a happier banter, literally lighter on his feet, and teasing her again.

"Aye, your boss for starters," she scoffed at that, deep in her throat and turned around to show him with her face how 'unimpressed' she was by his joke. He wasn't fazed – not in the slightest, this back and forth was an old game now (he teased, she glared, they both smiled) – and he moseyed right in front of her, so close that he cast a bit of a shadow on her face. Her smile grew at the obvious step that rendered her stuck between a pile of Margaret Atwood on the table, and himself.

"Try again," she played.

There it was again, that lopsided smile that seemed to nudge his eyebrows. It was clear as day what he was implying – but she wasn't surprised. She unconsciously mirrored the jovial sneer on his face, rolling her eyes at his never-ending flirtations.

"You wish."

"Perhaps, I do."

Something quite literally lunged in her chest. He was so close (again) and his expression so honest (as always). She thought back to Christmas emails, to the torn page sitting in her bedroom, to the fact that he was just _always _here, eyes always flirting or facetious. Before she knew it her body made the snap decision milliseconds before her brain did, and she kissed him.

She just dove the few inches between them and crashed herself into him.

At least it felt like a crash, the impact of the act hitting her as forcefully as though she'd leapt head first into a brick wall, but in actuality, she had grabbed him gently by the lapels of his jacket with shaking fingers. The mere shock of the others lips attached to their own made both Emma and Killian stumble, finding balance from the table behind her before finding a balance between their currently entwining bodies.

Her mind was a blank.

She could think of nothing in that moment except for the feeling of him gasping into her, and then recapturing her lips again with a gentle ferocity; could think of nothing else except the tingling, dancing feeling his hand in her hair was creating on her scalp; could think of nothing else except the feeling of his nose pressed against her cheek as she responded by grazing his lower lip with her teeth.

She was rapidly running of breath, ignoring the messages from her lungs that were telling her to take a moment to normalise her breathing. Emma ignored the messages so vehemently that she only gripped onto him with more intent, both hands on either side of his face scraping the scruff - that even with her eyes shut she knew was slightly ginger - with her nails as he changed the angle. (She may have accidentally made a noise as he did so). The corner edge of a book on the display table behind her was nudging into her lower than his hands were daring to roam, but she couldn't find it in herself to care, not when he was coaxing her with his lips the way he was.

He pulled back first, his own heated little puffs of air blowing on her skin. A gentle thumb found its way into the crevice of her chin as their noses remained insistently bumping, as though impatient to get back to what they had been doing.

"That -" he sounded wrecked. The cracking in his voice made her drag open her own eyes, to find his heavily lidded, staring straight at her lips. He looked how she felt – all blushes, bit lips and pounding hearts.

(He looked dangerously sincere and handsome with a blush on his cheeks).

He tried to speak again, a little more firmly.

"That, is a far cry from disinterested, love."

"So, if I'm a book," she started, falling further into the table to keep her legs from giving way (and pulling him by his jacket as she did). "Which chapter is this?"

He laughed a heavy exhale, moving his thumb round to the base of Emma's ear (grazing her jaw as he did so, sending a shiver down her spine), his fingers in her hair, leaning in until their lips were almost touching.

"I've no clue, but it's bloody riveting, and I intend to find out what happens next."

She tried to smile back at him, but he was kissing her again, erasing all her intentions of doing anything but returning the favour.

It wasn't until he tried to limit the already limited distance between them that they were forced to stop. The impact of his body pressed into hers (one hand finding its way under the hem of her shirt, one of hers leaving fingernail trails in his hair) caused her to inch back onto the table a little more, and the large pile of brand new books that were poking into Emma were accidentally bumped, falling to the floor in a cacophony of noise.

They paused, listening, waiting for the consequences, looking at each other and when he grinned mischievously she couldn't help but wince and bite her lip. He stared at her as she did it, clearly getting ideas of his own. They didn't hear anything but the absolute pounding of their own hearts in their ears, as she rested her forehead on his, until -

"Emma? Was that you? I told you those piles were an accident waiting to happen."

The sound of her boss' voice from the front of the shop, and his approaching boots, sent Emma into a series of hissed instructions as she nudged Killian off her. He kissed her cheek wickedly before scampering (was he scampering? Or was her heart doing that, it was difficult to tell) through a different aisle to avoid her boss, winking as he went.

That boy was so much trouble.

He was trouble for the rest of her shift when she found her heart rate wouldn't settle, and he was trouble right up to the moment she was still thinking about the bristle of his beard against her face, as she used the bristles of her toothbrush to clean her teeth.

But Emma's heart stuttered in her chest for an entirely different reason when he texted her that night at 1 o'clock, the buzzing noise startling her as she was drifting off.

_Emma I'm sorry about the time are you awake? Liam's gone._


	4. Children's Literature

_A/N: If I could individually hunt you all down and hug you and force vegetables into you like some crazed mother hen I would - you and your feedback mean the world to me and there's so much of it I don't know what to do with myself I just want to keep you all safe and snug and healthy. So here is Chapter 4, now with its own little cover art over on Tumblr. You guys continue to overwhelm me with your reviews and follows and favourites. Please know that you all fluster me._

**_Whatever Floats Your Boat_**

Part 4: Children's Literature

.

Emma had never really lost anyone before.

Well, no, that wasn't strictly true. Emma had lost lots of people (and in a multitude of ways), but nothing close to this. Although she had lost everyone that had been in and was supposed to be in her life, she knew the difference – the difference between that and this. She had never so fiercely _had_ someone that their presence in her life was a guarantee. Never so fiercely had anyone (except perhaps Neal, but that was debatable).

And watching Killian lose the one last person that was that to him was unbearable; stripped of the one person left in his life that tied him to anything, to anyone, to anywhere. It was all well and good to know these as facts as well, but the way that he would always speak of him, their stories, with such love and loyalty? Well that hurt.

Emma honestly didn't know how to feel.

Okay, so maybe that was another misnomer. Perhaps it would be better to say she didn't know how to express it. She could feel his pain so clearly in her own heart and limbs that it made her sick – so she shut it off, simple as that. She had texted him her address, thankful that she had no idea where her roommates were (they were fine people, but not what you'd call close), and waited for an hour until he showed up, at her front door, looking like a hologram of his former self.

She had feared that look the entire time it took for him to get to her place and was in large part why she felt so sick. An anxiety had grown in her chest ever since reading his text, but the actual look of him was far worse than what she'd been imagining (and that was saying something). Emma hadn't been able to say anything to him when he came in, apart from the few strangled greetings they gave each other.

She'd panicked a little when he'd first come in, standing silently in the hallway, taking off his jacket. Emma excused herself a few moments later to nervously shake a few broken (but silent) sobs in the bathroom to rid herself of the initial shock to her system, caused largely by the pain that he was wearing - clear as day - on his face. The evidence on her own face was gone (desperately washed away in front of the mirror), except the changed shade of green in her eyes, a fact which he did not fail to notice, doing a double take as she came back out.

He was doing the same thing though – shutting away his feelings.

He wasn't very good at it - his eyes, his whole face, lingered in a puffy red, and Emma had zero idea how to help anyone get through something like this, because he wasn't speaking and she wasn't speaking, and in fact the entire night around them wasn't speaking. His hair was sticking somewhat to his forehead, and while the flush of his cheeks and his haphazard hair may look to the average eye a result of a cold night with harsh winds, there was no wind to speak of. She found herself wondering (multiple times that night) why it was that nightmarish atmospheres were always described as rough. Rough winds, rough seas, heavy rains – none of it made any sense to her, because what this night was really driving home was that absolute stillness was the worst soundtrack to disaster.

And the night was _so _still. There was no wind, no rain, no street noise, not even the nocturnal birds had thought to venture out tonight, nothing to detract from what it was that had happened – what _was _happening.

Everything was just so unbearably still, as though the night knew how to handle it about as much as they did.

(Which was not at all.)

He had lingered so awkwardly at first, glancing around the apartment curiously, as though trying to identify what was hers and what were her roommates. It was the sheer fact that he looked so uncomfortable that just jolted Emma into grabbing the situation by the horns. She padded (silently), a tartan blanket wrapped around her shoulders, into the kitchen, deciding that fussing about making drinks was better than waiting for him to say something. He followed her there wordlessly, the gentle clunk of his boots becoming muffled on the old 50s linoleum floor of her kitchen. Her absolute inability to think of anything to say to distract him was irritating her, but he hardly seemed to notice, the look in his eyes telling her that his mind was nowhere near by.

She broke the silence further, clankering round the galley kitchen gathering mugs, cocoa and cinnamon, and asking him if he wanted anything to eat.

He only declined, said the chocolate would be fine, before taking the mugs from her to heat the milk in the microwave himself. Emma let him do it, sensing his itch to do something, and leant back on the counter to watch him. His movements were a little slow, as if stunned into sluggishness, and you'd never know that the same person standing in front of her now was the very one that had been grinning ear to ear as they bumped nose to nose only hours earlier.

He looked so much younger like this – so forlorn, and childlike.

"Thank you, for this," Killian said it without looking at her, as though embarrassed by the situation, as though he was imposing on her, and that sat ill with Emma. She took a few steps towards him as he placed the mugs in the microwave, the high-pitched noise of the buttons ringing loudly.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Am I being?"

The question was heavily loaded, she could tell by the vulnerability in his eyes, and she wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps he doubted whether the level of their companionship extended to 2am shoulders to cry on. But if Emma was being completely honest, she wasn't sure there were any levels at all when it came to them. Or if there were, she had no idea how to get from one level to another and was certain that they'd gone straight from 17 to 3, before shooting up to 34 or something equally nonsensical.

"After this afternoon you still have to ask me that?"

A wistful sort of smile hesitantly grew on his face, and for that she was glad – glad his smile still worked, and glad to distract him with something pleasant in the first place. Though the smile didn't last there was a small twinkle lingering somewhere in the depths of his reddened eyes and that small spark lit one of her own.

"This is something entirely different to a quiet, spur-of-the-moment, moment in the shop," was his whispered reply.

She looked down, smiling inwards a bit before the microwave beeped at her, the feeling of that afternoon leaving almost as soon as it had arrived.

"It's okay to need someone, Killian."

His expression did not change – did not soften, did not harden – though he did absentmindedly thumb one of the tassels that was hanging off her blanket, rolling it between each of his fingers.

"You should learn to take your own advice, love."

She ignored his statement, opting instead to move around him and take the mugs out of the microwave, spooning the cocoa into it, before placing them back in for a few more seconds.

"It nicked his heart."

His words stilled Emma in her tracks, and she turned slowly to find him staring at his feet, irritably clenching the right hand that moments earlier had been idly feeling the blanket.

"The shrapnel - it began to move, and by the time it reached his heart, he was dead."

The cruel reality of his words were only punctuated by the quiet night around them

She barely felt herself move, barely registered anything but the gentle croaking of his words, their usual timbre lost entirely – until she felt her hand in his, fingers unfurling the fist and coiling into them instead. They did not hug, but his other hand found hers (the cold clamminess in his palms washing her more in his melancholy) and she shuffled forward a bit, allowing his cheek to rest upon the top of her hair. It took him a long time to settle into the position, but once he let go with a deep and shaky sigh, another of her tears fell across Emma's nose.

The beeping of the microwave completely ignored as they remained, hands holding at their sides, hair covering their eyes.

They fell asleep on the couch.

Not with their limbs tangled in each other, not with one 'accidentally' spooning the other, not in any of the vaguely intimate ways that either of them would have preferred. Emma had crashed, her legs curled up and torso heavily draped over an arm of the chair, while Killian had drifted off sitting up. The only contact between them were the toes of Emma's feet, pressed lightly against his thigh as they poked out of her blanket and under his own.

It was the sound of a slamming door from one of her neighbours that woke her, the noise of it making a dull echo through her place and Emma's first thoughts were those of people who find themselves asleep in places that are not a bed – that her back was aching.

That, and she was cold.

Those thoughts vanished quickly.

His head was in his hands, hunched over and leaning on the edge of the settee. He was sobbing silently, the tears a steady stream of grief, relentlessly so, regardless of how hard he pressed the balls of his hands into them to dam them, mouth parted to breathe. Killian tried to still himself a little when he noticed her stir, she could tell, his breathing becoming unnaturally slower and even – he was trying to control himself.

Emma sat up immediately, crossing her legs beside him, and just leaned against his shoulder with her right hand losing itself at the nape of his neck.

He seemed to lose a bit of self restraint with her there - awake, and with him - as he let go a little more, moving his shaking hands to his hair where he gripped onto it simply to grip onto something. She completely ignored that the muted rumbling of his cries shook her head uncomfortably. There was still no sound made by his tears and it seemed to mirror the continuing eeriness of the night, save for the occasional low hiccup of his breathing that sounded like thunder in contrast.

Neither of them cared.

She let him cry, she let him still beneath her at times but pressed her cheek harder into his shoulder each time he did in a silent encouragement. More than anything she needed him to know that she was there, and that he was by no means alone (knowing in part that that was why he'd messaged her), and while he had no family to speak of (he had told her that much), she would be there. She just let him cry, and every time his lungs stuttered she herself let a tear fall to dampen his shirt.

His left hand eventually found her own when the tears eased their onslaught, playing with her fingers in his, finding them a distraction in addition to a comfort.

She let him mourn.

It was still dark outside.

* * *

><p>She was almost too afraid to ask him why he was in the children's section.<p>

Emma hadn't seen him come in, but once she'd spotted him in the most vibrantly coloured part of the shop, spotted with a strange assortment of plush vegetables and anthropomorphic figures, she stopped where she was. It was hard to miss him, the tall leather clad young adult rather stood out compared to the two other five-ish year olds either side of him.

He was still looking a little worse for wear, but steeled into something stronger – not a steeling of pretence and guise, but one of exhaustion that through necessity became strength.

In truth, there could only really be one reason why Killian was there, looking through things far below his reading capability and it made her cheeks flush with an anxious sadness.

Emma, still frozen in place, watched as three books were pulled off their shelves, pulled with purpose rather than curiosity: a smallish book of Roald Dahl poetry was first to come off, followed by a huge clunky illustrated _Animalia_, until lastly, Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy found its way into his hands.

Unable to let him stand there on his own any longer, Emma stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, as though browsing the shelf herself.

"Your favourites or his?"

He was completely unfazed by both her presence and her question, choosing instead to flip through the book about the little black dog, settling on a page with a scar-faced cat.

"A bit of both. This one," he passed the larger of the three gently into her pair of hands, grazing her fingers with his as he always had a habit of doing. His voice was a soft kind of gravelly, suggesting that he hadn't spoken to anyone in a while, and the dry crackle in the gravel suggesting he was still letting himself cry.

_Good_, Emma thought to herself.

"This one, is my favourite. Hairy Maclary was my brother's, and the Roald Dahl we used to read together."

Tucking the book she already had into her chest and a little into her arms so she had her hands free, she took the Roald Dahl from him, tracing the letters of the title (_Revolting Rhymes_) reverently with her fingers. The image of a younger Killian, sitting with his brother reading the ridiculous fairy tale verses cross-legged on a floor somewhere was heart-achingly surreal. Emma lingered a little on the story of Jack and the Giant Beanstalk, imagining the two boys giggling at the silly turn of the tales.

"Swan?"

He was staring at her, but she could not tear her eyes from the book. She felt an uncomfortable moisture well in her eyes as she tried desperately to shake his pain from her own veins. She totally ignored the child next to him who threw a toy broccoli over their heads the entire length of the aisle.

"Are you going to buy them?"

Out of the corner of her eye, he ducked his head, Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

"Most likely there are still copies back, erm, back at home."

There was something in that, but it did not even occur to her to push it – he had been pushed far enough this week.

She had gone silent once more, lost in the items that he treasured and the memories that accompanied them, but his voice shook her once more from her reverie, asking which was her favourite.

Emma had never really been a big reader as a child. Very few of the foster homes in which she stayed really catered to the reading interests of young children. Though there were always school libraries, the aisles of which she used to amble down as she did the store aisles now.

"Not sure that I really have one."

"May I recommend – this one."

He pulled it off the shelf like he knew exactly where it was and what it was, unintentionally giving away just how long he'd been standing in this section of the shop.

And try as she might, Emma couldn't help the chuckle that escaped her (trying to fight the laugh with a grimace through her glasses) as he ceremoniously presented her with a pastel-coloured picture book of _The Swan Princess._

("Hilarious." "Devilishly so.")

She whacked him in the chest with the books in her hands in feign indignation, memorising the crinkles of his eyes as he smiled back at her.

* * *

><p>She saw him every day that week.<p>

Emma wouldn't quite go as far as to say he was doing better. Sure, he no longer had a despondent air about him, but he was still unbearably fragile and she got the impression that there was an underlying fury waiting to have legitimate cause. She feared what that feeling was doing to him. He was clearly not coping – but Emma had gathered by now that her simple presence (and the complicated set of emotions it brought with it) was somehow enough, somehow grounding.

She didn't read into it.

She did not realise until it was too late, that this build up of days, and moments, and _feelings _was only making his inevitable departure in a few weeks worse. Part of Emma's subconscious simply told her to let it happen, to enjoy it while it lasted. The slow development of their bond had borne a friendship (the kind that had not grown with Neal, romance coming first, friendship later – although arguably, she and Killian had always been romantically inclined). In fact, the last real friend she had, she had lost due to betrayal and stubbornness when she was a younger, more rash.

One day she told him this without meaning to.

Killian had wordlessly decided to walk her home, and while in the past she may have simply suspected that it was part and parcel of his whole gentleman act (well, not act, personality), now it rather felt like he was trying to be in her company for as long as he feasibly could.

She said it – as she said everything that meant something – with an impartial tone and an offhand nature. It was his fault, really, he was the one who had grabbed her hand, he was the one who ran his thumb over the small tattoo that resided there on her wrist. He brought it up, dodging a few suits and briefcases that rushed around them, more than keen to get home. The two of them however, surrendered to a more leisurely pace, totally ignoring the speed at which the peak hour world worked, no doubt frustrating the bustling individuals around them.

"Anything important?"

She didn't say much about it (_"Just a reminder of an old friend – my last friend, actually. She betrayed me, I betrayed her – we were just kids." "Yet, she is worthy of a tattoo." "I guess."_) but it was enough for him to understand. He kissed the tattoo briefly, before looping his arm around her neck, fingers still woven together, as they walked in the late afternoon sun.

There had been no real discussion about what either of them had experienced last week in the bookshop (although the memory of his touches so concrete and cemented into her skin that it was as though he'd paved a path with the damn things).

(Perhaps it was that memory that made their hands entwine of their own accord.)

Outside of her front door, he told her that childhoods tend to leave lasting impressions, the lingering presence of Liam still clearly at the forefront of his mind. She kissed him briefly but slowly (for the first time since the first time), surprised still by the spark it lit in her chest at so small a gesture. She pulled back (too soon), and he wavered forwards a bit. She stopped his fall by nudging her nose with his to push him back up again, while the palm of her hand rested smack bang in the middle of his chest. Emma, while this thing with Killian was clearly getting out of hand, was not quite ready to figuratively throw herself to the wolves, instead throwing a range of excuses at herself about fear, and Liam.

"Bye, Killian."

(She should have invited him inside, should have spent a little more time with him, for coffee, anything.)

"Night, Swan."

(She had wanted to.)

* * *

><p>She saw him every day that week – and yet he had failed to mention it to her.<p>

That thing that had been lingering there, under his grief, under the intensity with which he now looked at her – that thing that she ignored (she shouldn't have ignored it).

It happened in the shop. It always happened in the shop. The books of the damn place probably knew more about Emma and Killian's comings and goings than either of them could remember themselves. She resented the books in that moment, resented how they had created the environs in which the whole thing had happened, blamed them for weaving a narrative she hadn't asked for.

That day as he came in, shoulders slackened, and a guilty look upon his face, she knew something was wrong (aside from the aching feeling Liam had left, anyway).

Both she and her boss had been talking idly about the weather (it was sunny, cold, but glary, if you were wondering) when he trudged through the door, letting it clang loudly behind him (as per usual). Emma excused herself, leading the way down one of the aisles, towards the back where the second-hand books lived, and which knew Killian well.

"Everything okay?"

He didn't speak at first, though his mouth did open, most likely to reflexively respond with 'fine, love'. He, like the books that towered over them on both sides, knew – and knew well at this stage – how far keeping things from each other had got them (which was not very far at all). Whether it was Emma's reserve, or Killian's reticence, both had been the ones to put down hindrances.

"I have to leave, have to go home," he was scared of this conversation as much as she was, the crackle of his cadence telling her so. He was also unnervingly still and yet the gaze of his eyes were constantly moving about her face.

"I know, I just assumed we'd talk about it when the time came."

"The time may have come a little sooner than expected."

Emma blinked at him, with each flutter of her eyelids understanding more and more the reality of what he was saying. He watched her carefully for her response, a look that was equal parts fear, equal parts despair.

"You're leaving."

"I have to sort out my brother's estate. I have to do something about his boat, and the inheritance tax, his accountant called to say he had some flat somewhere; and see if the bloody government or their damn military is going to give me any compensation seeing as it's their bloody fault in the first place."

Killian was barely holding onto the anger that Emma had ignored for the past week, seen there first on the night he had cut open his face in a damned stupid bar brawl. His fingers were restless, clenching, unclenching, scratching behind his ear – his irritability was overwhelming her and she wanted desperately to calm him down. Though she wasn't sure that anything really could calm him down, the level of his grief far beyond any of her own youthful losses, and the resentment he was showing towards the government back home suggested that his helplessness and blame ran far deeper than she would like.

Hopefully, it was just stage three of his grieving process.

"You're leaving." The repeated words said aloud once more in a vain attempt at coming to terms with what it meant. She couldn't though, had barely begun to embrace this thing between them - and Emma sounded broken. She didn't _want_ to sound broken, had fought so hard the last few years to shake broken out of her repertoire, but the fact of the matter was that no one stayed, everyone left, he wasn't staying – he was never going to stay (_his days were always numbered_).

"No, love, not leaving – being forced." It was almost as if he knew what the simple act of leaving meant to her and while she appreciated that he clarified the difference between choice and obligation, it changed nothing. "There's not a chance in hell that I want to leave, let alone early."

Swallowing the sharp pain in her throat (enduring the uncomfortable feeling as it scratched her throat on the way down) she asked when his flight was.

He cast his eyes away from her at the question, and towards the ground, the darkness of his eyebrows almost hiding his eyes entirely at this angle. The longer it took him to answer the question, the worse she knew it was, the muscle in his jaw twitching in a familiar way, and her heart sunk when he replied.

"Tonight."

Forget sunk, her heart was suddenly anchored to the floor beneath them.

"Why the fuck did you leave it so late to tell me?!" She almost screamed it at him, her voice higher in pitch than she'd intended, hoping that no one could hear their conversation.

"I was a coward, I know, but I was scared. Scared of this damned conversation, scared of going home to deal with it all, scared of what leaving would mean." If she hadn't been so angry at him for how he had dealt with it, the fragmented, pleading of his own words would have overwhelmed her more.

(But it was the kind of voice that would plague her later that night as she replayed the conversation in her mind.)

"We're all scared, Killian, of everything and anything!"

"I know."

The silence that fell between them was by far their most awkward silence yet, punctuated by the annoying pluck of lutes throughout the shop. Both of them wanting and neither one knowing how to go about it. Killian finally lifted his glance from the floor, a pained restraint once again present in his blue.

"Can I take your anger as a subtle sign that this means something to you?"

She was scowling at him now. Mad that he was leaving, mad that he had sprung this up on her. Mad that he was always going, mad that she should have known better, mad that she felt this way about him, mad that he was unsure whether or not she felt this way about him, mad that it wasn't his fault.

Mad at him.

The only thing she could think to do was kiss him. She grabbed his face gently, scowl still firmly knit in her brows, and pressed her lips to his – almost at a squash – the force a furious attempt at easing the painful throb of her heart.

It didn't work. It made it worse. The harder she pressed her lips, the more it hurt; the more it hurt, the harder she pressed. Killian's arms pulled her tightly against him, clenching the tan leather of her own jacket, reciprocating her frustrations with his own. When their lips let go to breathe, neither one pulled back to make any distance, and when Emma hiccupped a little, tears travelling down the valley of her face, he recaptured her lips.

The reverence in their limbs a total contrast to the way their lips wanted to feel and push.

Emma was about 90% sure that they weren't alone in the aisle anymore, but there was similarly only 10% of her that actually cared.

"You know I will think of you, far more often than I should."

She laughed a bit, one congested by her tears and pulled back to look at his face. Despite her own pain she suddenly hated the universe for the heart-breaking and lonely journey he was about to make on his own. He had been so aged by the world, and yet the forlorn agony on his features made him look so young, much younger than they were. The cut on his cheek had indeed scarred, and she traced the mark dotingly, as she whispered just three words to him.

"Just as well."

It was with an unbearable amount of effort that they let go of one another, but they had both heard as Emma's boss called her name from the counter, both heard as more and more footsteps approached them. Using the back of his fingers, he wiped the tears that remained on her face (the rest had trickled down her chin and onto the neckline of her top) and both stared challengingly at the other, daring someone to say goodbye first.

But they wouldn't (couldn't).

No one said it at all.

"Text me when you get there."

It wasn't a question, but he told her he would - of course - anyway. Emma could see his tongue playing behind his teeth, grasping for the strength to say what was coming, and the look he gave her was so serious that her heart jumped back into place.

"All paled in comparison, Swan."

A cliché. Naturally.

She chuckled, flustered, and as she closed her eyes the remaining tears hanging on the edge of her lashes fell from her face. She kept them closed as he kissed her cheek, and she kept them closed as the sound of his feet dwindled, and suddenly Emma became a girl, crying alone with her eyes shut in the middle of a bookshop.

"Emma?" Her boss. Again.

"Coming."

Her boss at least looked concerned when she came back, wiping her face on the cuff of her sleeve, taking deep breaths – she still had a job to do. The new prints of Maurice Sendak books would not process themselves.

Fortunately, her shift that day was not too long, and it flew. Flew, not because time flew as she was having fun – in fact quite the contrary. It flew because her mind was so preoccupied with her heart and the way it never ceased aching. The violent thumping of it distracted her as she scanned purchases, as she left the shop to her boss (_"another day in, another day out, Emma"_), as she made small talk with people.

It thumped aggressively all the way home until she saw, sitting on her doorstep a parcel wrapped in brown paper and a piece of string, a small note sitting on it, and the whole pounding thing didn't know what to do with itself.

_Emma,_

_I couldn't fit all the books in my suitcase. I feel like this is your fault, for luring me in with your harpy ways, therefore your burden to bear. Think of it more like borrowing, than gifting._

_I will miss you more with every day - clichés hold an element (or two) of truth._

_Killian_

Emma carried the bundle inside, and carried herself into her room where a hollow gravity overwhelmed her

– and she let it.


	5. Imagery

_A/N: Oh boy. What do you say to a bunch of people who relentlessly show you kindness, and loveliness and preciousness? I love you all so much for it and you are a bunch of some of the nicest people. At some point I'll get around to replying to you all, but all of your reviews make me absurdly emotional - I actually cried the other day. Honestly._ _Sadly, this story I feel is winding down, and so this will most likely be the penultimate chapter...  
>On with the story.<em>

**_Whatever Floats Your Boat_**

Part 5: Imagery

.

Emma would like to have been able to say that she waited up all night, in part waiting for him, in part thinking of him. She'd like to be able to say that the thought of leaving work early to chase him to the airport was something that had crossed her mind, telling him she'd quit her job and follow him. Nor could she say that she had been overwhelmed with the need to call him up for yet another tearful goodbye. She could not imagine herself in any of those scenarios. It never occurred to her that she could pull out the romantic comedy stops; fight through wind and traffic to beat him to the gate - none of that happened.

Truth is she crashed.

There were seven books in the little brown paper pile Killian had left her, seven books which she had lain out across her bed, observing each of them with varying degrees of recognition. There was a book of Hellenistic philosophy that she didn't remember at all, and the mere fact that there were still so many things she didn't know about him (daft, irrelevant or significant), so many missed opportunities, and so many unsaid things destroyed her.

(Bit by aching bit).

Her fears and her determination to be safer from the world in general had cost them so much time, and she began to hate herself for it. The regret plain and simply made her feel sick, a feeling which only encouraged the tears, torn between believing in the defence of her walls and loathing the distance it put between them, her and everyone.

All of it exacerbated by the simple physical distance between her and him now.

And so she had crashed.

The walk home from work had been accompanied by a particularly petulant wind, her face mildly numbed by the chaos and the sound of it now, roaring outside of her window, was strange in utter contrast to the quiet way she let tear after tear coat her face. So numbed were her cheeks that she could barely feel them as they trickled down her face, but she knew they were there, her vision obscured by the stupid things before they slipped and fell. Eventually she had fallen asleep, head crashing to pillow without recognition, feet buried under the pages of a tattered _Aeneid_.

When she awoke hours later – half tangled in her quilt, half on top of and underneath the books themselves - she found her head was completely throbbing with the remnants of last night's exhaustion. Her eyes were puffed and aching, but it was easily the pounding of her head that was causing her the biggest grief, and not the spine of the Donna Tartt digging into her thigh. It was as though the gales outside during the night had picked up scattered leaves to assemble them on her sheets, caring very little for precision or delicacy.

Despite the crowded mess of her bed (books strewn, blankets tangled) she felt incredibly empty, her entire body thrown off-balance by the contrasting cumbrous feeling of her heart. She rearranged her feet, folding the edge of her doona around them with the grasp of her toes.

Her legs ached too. "_God, Emma, this is pathetic" _she told herself - mad about it all, really. Yet louder than her own thoughts was the whisper of the dying winds outside, and the strange way the sound of it seemed to whistle through the empty canyons of her body.

(Even though the windows were tightly shut.)

It was not simply an emptiness created by a good cathartic cry (although she was definitely dehydrated now as a result), but an emptiness in knowing that the only person in her life that truly meant anything was genuinely physically gone.

The longer she lay there, too lazy to even move the cascading hair from her face, she knew that it was more about _him_ being gone and far less about him being the _only_ person.

Emma nestled her head further into her pillow, momentarily determined that the cushioning would obscure her from the outside world. The curtains of her window were wide open, and though the street lights were still glowing, casting barely there tree shadows on the far wall, somewhere outside the sun was beginning to rise, lighting her sparsely decorated room with a soft blue glow.

It was so agonisingly early and now that she'd dragged open her eyes (glued together rather uncomfortably by the tears from last night) she could not stop eyeing her phone. It was just within arm's reach - still it took her several heart thumping minutes to steel the courage to check for any notifications.

There was just one.

_Arrived on time with no customs hold ups. Sorry about the books I left outside your house. Liam's place is a mess no news yet about when he'll be brought home. Still mad at me?_

Emma had never felt so out of place as she had that night sitting in her bedroom. It had definitely been ages since she had cried quite so much, letting her feelings get the better of her and with nothing to distract her or draw her out from it. She had actually spent a long time trying to figure out if she was mad at him. He'd definitely chosen an incredibly crap way to go about things, but Emma could not feel anything but firm, resolute sadness.

_You're going to spend the next few days sending me cleaning jokes aren't you? The books are fine. Don't worry I'm far from the 'mad'ding crowd._

Emma sat up (surprised at the throaty giggle as it left her lips), finding herself relieved that the tone of his text was as though he had never left, and decided to read the very book she had punned. The book was second-hand, the bind well bent, the pages well spent, and though she knew that it couldn't possibly have been all his doing, the only image she could conjure was the one of his ring-clad fingers sliding between the pages, wearing them in (an action she acted out with her own).

She had only really spent half the morning moping in bed looking through the books, unable to fall back to sleep, before she became impatient with her own mood. Though, all it really took was a wander into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee for her to miss the comfort of her own bed. She fell amongst its comfort once more, smiling as she looked back at her phone.

_I deserved that for leaving Thomas Hardy on your doorstep._

* * *

><p>Two days later he sent her a photo, taken in almost the exact place as the one he'd taken of a sleeping Christmas Liam. In Liam's stead was a bottle of mould remover and the following caption: <em>cleanliness is next to godliness.<em>

Against her better judgement she laughed.

* * *

><p>In truth, it was the phone call that did the biggest damage.<p>

Killian hadn't been gone all that long, only thirteen days (not that she was really keeping track), and while he texted her most days, it was enough to wonder how things might have changed between them. She had been walking home with some groceries when he'd rang, the coincidence of passing the scene of his last bar-lit brawl, when the vibrating feeling in her bag sent little quakes down her arm, was not lost on Emma.

She stared at his name on the screen for a fleeting moment, not really sure how to handle it. Not that Emma had a problem with talking on the phone (because she didn't). It was just that it would definitely be the first time she'd heard his voice since he'd whispered his own flowery version of goodbye two weeks earlier.

(Since he'd whispered that she'd shone brighter for him than any others, the whisper of it still echoing in her mind.)

She fumbled a little to squash some of her shopping into her handbag before answering.

"Killian?"

"Hello, love."

And then silence.

Emma wasn't sure why he wasn't saying anything, the agonising joy that had struck her in hearing his voice was equally as powerful as the following silence. She did some quick mental addition, realising it was roughly 2 o'clockish his time while sidestepping a group of girls not watching where they were going. Regardless of the noise and laughter around her, she was still aware that he'd not said anything after his hello. She'd almost have expected the line to have dropped, but it was crystal clear – she could hear each footfall of his boots, a melancholy sort of amusement overcoming her at the thought they were simultaneously doing the same thing, though continents apart.

"What's wrong?"

She was met with a heavy sigh before he stuttered a - "Nothing, well – bloody hell, hang on."

The scuffling of his shoes ceased, slowly replaced by the rustling of what sounded like tall grass, the sound of wooden ground, wind gusts – he was at a wharf. Judging by the scattered consistency of his feet he sounded drunk – though she could barely hear it as a rather obnoxious driver went past.

"Not a day has gone by that I don't wish I were there, or you were here."

She'd heard that clear enough. The words were almost vitriolic to her ears, his voice so quiet and biting that the words caught in her throat. She tried to swallow the choke down but all it did was develop an uneasy tension in her heart, a tension that running her hands through her hair did nothing to abate.

"Killian," she warned him, overwhelmingly worried about the direction of this conversation when she couldn't see or touch him – and vice versa. (There was no point going down this road, there was nothing either of them could do).

"I know, I know, Swan - I'm aware. I'm not trying to complicate things I just wanted to let you know."

More silence. This time she felt like she should say something in response to his confession – but nothing came to mind. She wished Killian were walking beside her (bumping his shoulder into hers) so he could read the forlorn expression on her face that would confirm her own emotions.

Instead there was no one to witness her mildly gaping expression except passersby.

Emma listened to the sound of him dropping what she estimated to be pebbles into whatever water he was at (she was probably right in assuming it was the canal his brother lived on).

(She wondered if he was listening as intently to her end, listening to the sounds of passing cars and the beep of pedestrian crossings, and trying to picture where she was as she was him.)

She waited until she had passed a few loud groups of people before asking him just exactly how drunk he was. She wasn't a moron - from the long extended silences, to the rhythm of his walk, and back to the absurdly late hour he was calling, all suggested a rum-fuelled night. The breathy snort at the other end only confirmed it. (_"Is it that obvious?" "Did you forget who you were talking to? This was obviously a drunk dial. Just don't fall into the water, okay - you're no use to anybody as flotsam." "Are you saying I am the tattered debris of a shipwreck, Swan?" "How are you still so wordy when you're this liquored-up?" _)

(_"Just as long as you're not getting into any more stupid bar fights."_)

It had only been in jest, and yet his silence spoke volumes.

(She was definitely cursed to think in clichés for the remainder of her life.)

Killian only seemed to mutter a series of apologies, and an 'I know it was a moment of weakness', that he followed with heavy sighing. The annoyance that she felt for his recklessness was hardly because of the violence (Emma herself was often overwhelmed with the need to punch stupid people in the face), but it came from a place of concern for his mental - rather than physical - well-being. So she berated him.

"Can I take your anger to again mean you care?"

"You need to stop asking me that."

Her front door was a little difficult to unlock with the warm - and slowly burning heat of her - phone pressed against her ear. After greeting one of her roommates (absorbed by a movie, one arm around his latest paramour), dumping the groceries on the counter, she stumbled into her room, not even bothering to turn on the lights.

This sporadic back and forth that had taken up most of their conversation may have seemed odd to others – the fact that they hadn't spoken properly in a fortnight should have meant that they both had so much to say. She should have asked him how he was coping with his brother, how he was dealing with all the fall out - but nothing came. In part she knew that it was only something that he would have spoken about unprompted, or with the gentle coaxing of her fingers in his. As pathetic, and soppy, and _clichéd _as it might be, Emma was honestly just savouring the sound of him puffing little sighs and throwing stones on the other end of the line.

She fell on her bed, the soft comfort of air slowly rushing out of her doona, the quiet of her room allowing the tiny drops of stone to canal to rise in volume – and the quiet between them grew.

"Of course I miss you."

She spoke each syllable deliberately, willing him to understand. The words sounded blaring to Emma (no doubt as a result of the heaviness of their meaning), despite the fact that she'd whispered them in the complete blackness of her bedroom, to someone also in quiet and darkness. The sigh she received in reply only brought a constriction to her throat, a small acknowledgement of her emotions.

"I have to sell either the boat or the flat."

Killian's words were so broken, ringing just as loudly as her previous confession. He explained it, elaborating upon his reluctance to sell the boat, but the apartment was just more practical - and Killian could actually live in it. The clincher was that he could not afford both (didn't even have any income of his own at the moment as it was). Emma felt the tears trickle down her face as warm and as racking as they had been two weeks ago when he'd left. She tried to wipe them away before it became obvious through her breathing and she did not want to turn the conversation away from him.

Not for the first time she was embarrassed by her tears – even though no one could see her, lying still in the obscurity of her own room. She wondered whether other girls in their early twenties spent so much time agonising over boys they had kissed precisely thrice.

His own voice broke and crackled a few times as he slowly (but surely) told her how Liam would be brought home in roughly three weeks. Her hand twitched of its own accord, yearning to reach for his – and when it couldn't it simply wiped the tears from her cheeks instead.

* * *

><p>She hated him that night when she collapsed into sleep, hated that whatever this thing that she was feeling was so real, and hated that she did not know how to expel it from her system. With Neal there was only anger, and while it did not detract from how strongly she had loved him, it conveniently created a nice blanket of moss and overgrowth under which she could bury the emotions.<p>

But Killian hadn't done anything but waltz into her place of work, dripping from dark brown head to boot clad toe, and become cruelly afflicted by life.

* * *

><p>Emma became increasingly aware of the fact that his absence (and in fact his presence) had become such a focal point in her life. She didn't like it. Not simply because he had left her with such a void, but she realised that outside of expecting him to turn up to the shop, she really hadn't grown attached to anyone else. Regardless of that contrition, she knew that she had outgrown this place with it's endless stream of students or the painfully quaint bizarre outside the shop; outgrown everything about it.<p>

And that flooding need to _run_; to find home, began to fill her veins.

The books began to lose their appeal. They were no longer something that was just part of the daily grind; something to read and explore, but they became a visual reminder of the scrappy boy who was no longer reclining among them. (Emma had long since started associating them with him). There were times where Emma could have sworn she saw him there (so permanent a fixture was he), pouring over something or other, the strands of his fringe casting shadows over his eyes, and yet never too absorbed that he never knew she was there.

(It was usually just some other student, eyes not quite as drawing, ears never as pointy.)

Everything in the shop seemed foreign to her now somehow, and Emma wondered - eyes transfixed upon the film noir display in the far window, watching as it bent to the invading breeze's will - what it had felt like to be in the shop before she associated it so strongly with Killian.

(The second-hand aisle held no fondness for her anymore.)

(The door never clanged as loudly nor as briskly.)

(And he was no where to be seen.)

She hadn't meant to let it get so far, and found herself increasingly frustrated that it had. How was it possible that the hundreds of customers that came in every week could wander through those doors and not catch her eye? Emma was bumping and helping strangers almost every day of her life, handing over their change and their purchases, constantly grazing the fingers of them without even a second thought.

As she stood there at the counter - swivelling on her stool and watching an old couple bickering about Peter Carey - picturing him everywhere, she yearned for that overtly dumb way he'd purposefully touch his fingers to hers, brushing her skin, sending magical little touches from him to her.

More than anything, there was a war going on inside of Emma. The cynic (that large and overwhelming entity) that lived internally, mocking her own sentimentality, and talking loudly over that still small spark inside of her that yearned (_ugh_) to just see him.

* * *

><p>"Bee in your bonnet?"<p>

The fact that the question was directed at her did not immediately register. Though, in her defence, there was a significant amount of chatter in the restaurant, and enough people at her table to easily facilitate opportunities for Emma's mind to drift.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?"

They were out for her boss' birthday. Emma, a handful of her other co-workers, her boss and his husband were drinking sangria and bursting at the seams from far too much guacamole - and it was _nice_.

It wasn't exactly characteristic of Emma, the girl who barely knew her own roommates, but Killian's absence had kick-started something in her where she began to regret her own detachment from the people around her. So when her boss had asked her if she was available for a night out (_"nothing all that special, champagne on a beer budget kind of get together"_) she had said yes so quickly she'd surprised herself.

(And it wasn't because she was lonely – although she was certainly that – it was simply that she was sick of the self-imposed isolation. She came to the conclusion that it was entirely possible to be both safe within her walls, and a people person. She may have been somewhat prickly, but she was by no means void of social skills.)

(She'd spent months dealing with a spectrum of difficult customers – Emma had perfect people skills.)

Sure, he talked in a lot of clichés, and really needed to expand his musical horizons, but outside of Killian he was easily the person that she'd spoken to most in the six months she'd been living in town.

(At least the brightly coloured restaurant, with its walls covered in black and white photos of the proprietors family, was playing early 2000s pop ballads – there was not a lute in hearing distance.)

"You can ask me anything, Emma."

Prior to the drifting off of her thoughts, she'd actually enjoyed the night. It was nice to catch up with the people she was never (or rarely) rostered to work with, laughing openly at the bickering between her Christmas time colleague and a boy she'd never met.

Just as it had been strange to consider Killian outside of the bookshop, it was strange now to consider her boss, with his full black curls and his crows feet eyes, in a world where he was simply a man, no books or orders or customers to speak of, smiling in the seat beside her.

"What made you want to open a bookstore?"

He was clearly surprised by her question - pleasantly surprised - and started a long diatribe about moving to the town. None of it was particularly relevant to her question, but Emma waited patiently knowing full well that he would get around to it.

"I think it was a Tuesday when I saw the empty store... or was it a Sunday? It doesn't matter, I only remember that it was sweltering. It was completely run down by that stage and I couldn't help it, something about the tall shelves and aching bones of the place," he paused his little sing-song, noting the expectant look upon Emma's face and sensing that his answer wasn't quite what she was looking for.

He smiled, ever the jolly and strange man, taking a large sip from the glass in front of him, bobbing with pieces of orange. The man beside her was either unaware of the answer she wanted, or was simply biding his time.

"How is that young boy of yours?"

It was Emma's turn to drink from her glass, suddenly finding herself unable to look at him, and only finding herself able to flutter her eyelashes restlessly into her drink.

"So that's what this is about."

Emma really hadn't given her boss enough credit. Somehow she had assumed that the books were the only ones privy to their short lived romance, and it had completely escaped her how very (very) unsubtle they may have been. The look on her face must have told him as much because he chuckled before informing her that he'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to notice. She didn't know what was going on between the two of them, if there was anything, but just as she'd told him that he laughed once more at her before glancing round the table fondly at the crew surrounding them.

"Emma, I bought the shop because I wanted to do it," eyes still watching around the table, fingers twisting the glass in his hand by the stem. "I didn't have the foggiest idea how to run a business, only that I liked books and wanted to spread that joy – _so I took a leap of faith_. When you like something there is always going to be this niggling little feeling in the corner of your ribcage until you do something about it. My leap of faith just happened to involve a lot of polish and an acquired knowledge of literature. No, really, a lot of shellac."

She definitely hadn't given her boss enough credit.

He was right, really. Hit-the-nail-on-the-head kind of right, right down to the niggling feeling that had taken up residence in her ribcage from the moment he'd approached the counter to buy a trashy romance novel.

It wasn't even as though he was telling her anything she didn't know, humming his knowledgeable conclusion by swaying offbeat to the song that had begun playing. In theory she saw others carrying bundles of hope in their strides and watching it come true. It was just that she never saw happy endings ever working out for herself.

(Her life had been too many disappointments, one after the other. It may have sounded bitter and morose, but influenced by such disappointment, the pessimism came naturally to her.)

But as a small vibration from the pocket of her jeans distracted her, she wondered if perhaps Killian's unwavering loyalty - unyielding honesty - was different.

It was a picture of him on the grey-tiled floor of what she supposed was Liam's apartment with a rather deadpan expression on his face (a small bruise under his eye that she'd bring up later). It was the caption more than anything else that broke her.

_Wiping the slate clean._

* * *

><p>Emma bought a plane ticket.<p>

It just wasn't to London.


	6. Travel Guides

_A/N: So, for me this story has been a whirlwind. I've met so many gorgeous human beings because of it and your reviews have given me so much life I didn't know was possible. I just wanted to say that I quite honestly love anyone who has said nice things to me as a consequence of this daft thing I wrote half on a whim and half at your encouragement. I know it's simple, I know there's not a bunch going on and it's rather predictable – but I love you all so much for everything. And not to spoiler alert or anything, but the rating has kinda gone up, maybe, sorta… _ _I also had a few questions about who I thought Emma's boss would be fairy tale wise, and while he's not in Storybrooke, I've included his name in this chapter so you can figure out who he is through that handy thing we call google :)_

.

Part 6: Travel Guides.

.

_I quit my job this week. _

There were three things that happened within the space of three weeks that Emma would say - with the benefit of hindsight - were probably (definitely) worth noting. Of course, at the time she was none-the-wiser, she was simply the same small girl making the same frightened choices, lost to most people and to herself. She had no clue what she was doing, except that every vein in her body was begging her to scratch the itch that spread through her like pins and needles.

So, Emma waited.

As she always did when she did this (which she'd done several times, now), waiting for the regret to sink in. A boy had told her once, twisting on a rusty carnival swing, that she would just know when the decision wasn't the right one; know when an overwhelming feeling of post-adolescent yearning was location specific and not an esoteric longing for somewhere non-particular. Just as Emma would always wait for that answer, for that confirmation, that feeling, the response came back a resounding 'no' each and every time.

(Much to Emma's great disappointment.)

Similarly, that is exactly how it came to her now.

_'__No, you will not regret leaving this place'._

But there was something there that wasn't there before, and there was no denying to herself what was different this time.

Swinging on her faithful stool, absentmindedly mirroring the swinging image of Neal from the formative memory she was now replaying, Emma considered the very real possibility that she regarded the empty shop before her with actual fondness. She mentally tossed and turned over whether or not it was the quaint appearance of the shop - its tall ceilings, tall shelves, and equally tall tales. She had definitely developed an affection for being essentially a caretaker of books, the boss of ensuring that English boys did not drip water all over them. The stool beneath her began to squeak in a way it never had before. Emma read too much into the squeak, considering it a sign (as fanciful as the thought was) that all things must change.

Not that she was changing – she was running, again.

(Well, sort of.)

(And she shook her head immediately after the thought, dismissing the idea that green leather stools were fortune-telling furniture.)

It was her last shift, the last ten minutes she would ever look over the shop before counting the day's profits, and try as she did, she couldn't shake a sorry feeling from her stomach. Her boss was shutting up shop with her tonight (a wordless agreement to say farewell), and the cheery man had decided to hum as he dusted the shelves on the other side of the shop.

_Should I have taken more advantage of your staff discount?_

The buzzing of her phone had not surprised her, she was clinging so firmly to the thing, anxious for his response. She spun the phone in a circular motion through her fingers, again and again, bumping the bottom of her chin with each rotation, waiting for the courage to literally hit her so she could tell him what she was doing.

Okay, so truth be told, Emma wasn't entirely sure why she was so anxious to tell him. Perhaps, part of it was because she knew he would accuse her of running, would say that she was simply postponing things so she could live within her little castle walls that little bit longer.

Even if he would agree with why.

Perhaps, she was worried that her first thought should have been to fly straight to him. Would he have done the same thing if given the opportunity? But she needed this. She'd learnt long ago in her youth, and her post-prison days, that there was a certain freedom in being physically lost and the way it helped you to forget the awareness of being emotionally displaced.

_"__Why did Killian Jones want to come here anyway?" "Adventure, Swan – pure and simple"._

The memory replayed in her mind, overtaking the image of Neal. The recollection of Killian opening cardboard boxes, of teasing her, of his stubble scratching lightly on her face, gracefully (partially, anyway) scrambling for contact as they kissed themselves into a pile of books. Whether or not she knew it, Emma bit her lip at the sheer hankering to do it again.

_"__Why is it you've stayed so long here? Sick of running?"_

The shocking clarity of his words were what made the memory of each and every syllable stick to her mind like treacle. _Of course, I want to stop running, _she thought to herself, watching as her boss re-alphabetised a couple of _Eyewitness _travel guides. Perhaps she hadn't put enough confidence in how well they understood one another, in just how openly Killian could read her, that feeling of knowing and of empathy for their differing yet strangely similar circumstances. He had needed escape too in the search for something, despite the fact that it meant leaving his brother whom he loved so terribly.

Perhaps, she was anxious because she'd made her decision and now she couldn't take it back. No matter how unsure of it she felt.

(Sure flights could be un-ridden, minds reversed, words negated – but hearts were a little harder to change.)

(Not that this would be the last time she tried to change it.)

_Hold on a moment you actually resigned?_

Sighing she continued to spin her phone before a tune change from her boss echoed through the store, a tune she recognised from one of his CDs of lute music she would never (gods permitting) have to listen to again.

_Are you busy in three weeks time? Or are you going to be too busy being Oliver Twist?_

Emma counted the till, turned off the computer, and decided to take one last sickeningly sentimental turn down the aisles, thinking of how well she's come to know this store and how she'd likely never see it again.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," her boss was standing at one end of the aisle smiling as she was startled by him. In his hands was a pocket-sized _Lonely Planet_ to England, an idyllic countryside image on the front to match the chipper beaming of his own smile.

She was probably not going to miss his proclivity for clichés, however.

He handed it to her, exchanging her keys to the shop for the little book of advice, and she laughed at the terrible Shakespearean expression, thinking of how mere months ago his strangeness had been barely tolerable. Though, he did seem sad to be letting her go (and in a weird way, Emma was too), and he had been incredibly supportive of her journey, particularly since the night of his birthday dinner.

"Thank you, Duban. For this," Emma said awkwardly, gesturing at the book she was probably never going to use. "For everything."

"It was my pleasure, Emma."

The first of Emma's life altering decisions? The decision to leave.

.

For all her sentimentality, Emma passed the shop two days later to go to the bank.

(Though she didn't go in.)

.

Emma told him the wrong date.

He had asked her specifically when she was flying over to his continent (_"I thought you told me once that Europe wasn't even a continent?" "Missing the point, love")_, and she had told him the date she was landing in London. Like a coward. She was definitely overreacting by this point, certain that he wouldn't react negatively to her decision, but she was still fearing that paralysing sensation that she was crossing continents to see this boy that she'd kissed fewer times than she had left-hand fingers.

(The longer she thought about it, the more she definitely wanted to increase that number.)

Emma closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of the sea and listening to the white noise that not understanding half the languages around you could create. She couldn't regret this however, the strangely elating feeling of sore feet and a full stomach. Even when she opened her eyes to see the curve of land and sea to erase that white noise haze, the feeling of contentment did not leave her.

Even when she saw, again, what she was gripping in her hands.

She crossed her legs on the bench that was perched a few metres from the brink of the outlook, smiling at a little tourist boy munching on an ice-cream, jabbering in a language she couldn't even slightly begin to comprehend. Turning back to the Tyrrhenian before her, and the postcard of a ruined ancient city in one hand, pen in the other, she wrote.

_Killian,_

_So I might already be in Europe. You would love this place. It's pretty cold and there are still people eating gelato by the sea. But the history is great – or how do you say it, "a bloody marvel". Pompeii was a 'bloody marvel'. I got lost a few times but seemed to find my way in the end, even if I did end up in the same brothel 5 times. Not sure if you'll get this before I see you in England but I'm heading for Granada this week (on a stupidly long train trip) where I'm told food comes complimentary when you buy a drink. Sounds too good to be true._

_Emma_

_._

She was actually wandering through the mosaic hallways of the Alhambra when her phone buzzed in her bag.

_I bet Pompeii was like paradise. Were the views breath-taking? Would have been like stepping back in time. You should really wander off the beaten track though._

Emma couldn't help the pained smile that crept across her face.

_Really? Travelling clichés?_

_._

Liam's funeral was two days after Emma was set to arrive in Gatwick and it was the main reason (one of many, really) why she had aimed to be there on that day.

But the evening before her morning flight, with her blood full of cider, Emma felt the uncanny fear swell in her stomach – she was not ready. She could try to pretend that she was, create a scenario for herself whereby her visit meant less to either one of them than it truly did. But she couldn't. She could not overcome her heart – however, neither could she silence the fear careening through her bloodstream. What she needed was more time.

Emma chose to run again.

Instead of catching her flight, she caught a train to Lyon, where she proceeded to get blindingly drunk on wine, bitterness and self-hatred.

She missed Liam's funeral.

It was this, the second of her three decisions, the choice to run – again – that she would appreciate - only retrospectively - in its capacity to shake her into addressing her flight versus fight nature.

(When she survived the hangover.)

.

Of course, he wanted to meet her here. It was so predictable and sweet – and so very him.

The nerves that she had felt all the way here - climbing onto the plane, sitting on the plane, getting through customs after getting off the plane - had not returned, far too concerned was she with where she was going and how to get there. The instructions had been vague at best, a series of 'go to platform three, take a left at the bakery, stop to smell the roses' (that one made her cringe as she wheeled her case past a florist).

(Though of course, whimsical as the instructions were, she had known the moment she saw it that that was where she was going.)

She'd had to change trains twice, lugging the suitcase that she was quickly losing patience with up and down lift-less station stairwells. Europe may have been quaint and pretty, but one of the wheels of her suitcase had jarred between two cobbled stones her first week and it bent the thing into a wobbled form. As a result, every time she dragged the ridiculous piece of luggage over a surface that was remotely flat it produced an annoying melodic clack behind her. She blamed her own ability to attract bad luck, her own foolishness in dragging the damn thing down the middle of the pedestrian street by the Acropolis rather than the adjacent path, and her refusal to just use a bag rather than a suitcase.

(She had bought it brand new before it betrayed her.)

The walls of the shop-front were a bright red, almost the same colour of the coat wrapped firmly across her shoulders, and when she walked inside, the familiar scent of dust and paper affronted her.

She smiled – awkwardly – at the kindly woman with the cats-eyed glasses behind the counter, apologising for the noise of the suitcase across the hardwood floors (hoping the deformed wheel wouldn't scratch a path behind her). The shop itself was different to _A Novel Idea_ - the aisles tighter, the ceiling lower – and there were more pre-loved books. It felt more English. She abandoned her suitcase a little to scan the shelves curiously, head cantered slightly to the right to try and decipher some of the sideways titles.

Her nerves returned the moment the door to the shop clanged. It was an eerily familiar noise, but the shop itself was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday morning in the middle of a small English town. It wasn't him. She had a near perfect view of the door between the shelves – but that didn't stop her heart from racing every time someone walked through it. She wandered a little further, eyes spotting a particularly pretty leather copy of _Heart of Darkness, _squinting a tad without her glasses.

"Looking for anything in particular?"

Her heart leapt. For all her tensed waiting, Emma hadn't heard him come in; hadn't recognised the sound of his boots against the different, more muted, floorboards of this shop compared to hers. She smiled - a wide, stupid thing - upon hearing his voice, as mellifluous as always, before even turning to look at him. She crossed her arms, still wearing that grin that betrayed her body language.

(She had missed his face. A lot.)

Killian was still all dark hair and stubble, leather jacket and mischievous grin – but he looked tired. There was a dark kind of hollow under his eyes, and his face was a little thinner – but these were things that were hard to focus on when every part of him was beaming from ear to slightly pointy ear.

"No I'm okay, thanks - just browsing."

Emma hoped that the casual buoyancy of her words would hide the wild thrumming of her blood through her own ears, caused dually by fear and unadulterated happiness.

(She didn't know she'd missed him _this _much.)

"Not a problem, just let me know if you need anything."

She took two shaky breaths before his feet – firm and sure – strode towards her. All it took was a tug, sure and insistent, on her waist and Emma flung her arms about his shoulders, gripping onto the chilled, worn, jacket like a lifeline. Killian took no time at all in wrapping his arms tighter about her waist, pulling her almost painfully close to him, the strength of his hug keeping her balanced as she stood on the tips of her toes.

Emma was still nervous. The hug was definitely a good sign, as was the way his nose was buried into her hair, but her guilt over abandoning him, her guilt over running, made the embrace bittersweet to her. She noticed a group of old ladies wander into their aisle, nattering happily about birds (of all things). They smiled at her knowingly, and she could have sworn she saw one of them mouth the name 'Killian' before leaving the pair of them alone in the aisle.

"About bloody time."

The words were barely even spoken to her and more for himself than anyone else. But she responded anyway, squinting her eyes and burying a voiceless apology against the grey scarf on his neck. He did not seem to want to push her on the topic of her regret, regret she was sure he could feel in the shaking of her fingers. He seemed more content with crawling his arms further up her back until they were tangling in the ends of her hair. She apologised again, this time with two hands drifting down his front, just in case part of her fears were confirmed and he had thought her seeing him was just an aside in her travels.

(When really, it was the other way around.)

.

It only took them twenty minutes – although it would have, on a less ambled walk, taken about ten.

In twenty minutes they had left the musty old shop, his left hand hooked around her suitcase, dragging it through the town; in twenty minutes they were standing in the almost Spartan living room of Liam's two bedroom apartment, that lived above a greengrocer (the window was open and the place smelt distantly of carrot), grinning like Cheshire cats.

In twenty minutes Emma had thrown her arms around his neck, lips seeking his.

(At least, Emma thought she was the first to move, it was possible that he'd been the first to become distracted by staring at her lips.)

It was a desperate kiss, awkwardly clanging at first - each of them were determined to make up for lost time. She had forgotten in those pointless weeks of almost pining (_Emma Swan did not pine_) just how his fingers felt buried in the tassels of her hair, though she could not have easily forgotten the spicy way in which he smelt (now a little saltier than she recalled).

It was borne from longing, relief and joy, but with each movement of their lips the kiss began to speak words for them that neither had the patience to stop kissing to actually voice. Words of greeting, words enquiring after their well-being, words of something else entirely that Emma refused to put a name to.

(Love, the word she was avoiding was love.)

But there was also a hunger, and a curiosity, that had never managed to fight its way out of their respective bubbles of doubt – and yet here it was now, as though it preferred a different longitude, or as though they were merely more willing to embrace it.

Emma's hands slid under the shoulders of his jacket, forcing the arms of the clothing down till it fell on the ground with a quiet, reverberating thump.

He stopped kissing her the moment it fell about their feet.

If the look on his face was anything to go by he was trying not to read into it too much, a quiet anticipation descending over them, until all she could hear was the sound of two men outside talking about tomatoes, and the almost-sound of the question in the quirk of his eyebrow.

With an unhurried pull of his lower lip, he seemed to get the message.

So, with unsteady, measured fingers of his own, he moved to un-loop the large wooden toggles from the front of her coat, each downward graze of his hands increasing the heat in her face, in her limbs, in her blood – hell, everywhere. The toggles were all he did, though - it was Emma who shrugged it off, allowing it to fall (with a little less noise) to the floor in a similar manner.

"Welcome to England," words whispered into the apple of her cheek in a low and suggestive manner, destroying the rhythm of her heart, forcing it to skip a beat (or two).

She wanted what their coats had symbolised: the shedding of shields and other linen barriers. She wanted to feel his skin on hers with stubble buried into her neck, as his fingers (just as they were doing now at the base of her neck) traced the topography of her limbs. Though neither of them moved. Foreheads still bracing the pair of them, standing in the middle of the living room, her own hands gripping the hem of his little dark grey waistcoat, breathing the only thing to be heard.

The brazen way she had pounced on him earlier was suddenly no where to be found, as the realisation that she'd simply had one night stands since Neal, the realisation that if she were to go that step further it would undeniably mean something, hit her. Those feelings she almost resented were what made her run a week ago, and it was that something that stood between them now, making her stall.

He sensed her apprehension and the re-emergence of her fears – not her walls, but her fears – moving his hand to her chin, recapturing her mouth with the quiet, comforting nip of his.

She had barely paid any attention at all to her surroundings as they'd come in – it was kind of hard to, her eyes firmly shut and her other senses busy with him. Had completely ignored the eggshell blue colours of the walls, dismissed the fact that an array of hardcover books were being used as the legs of his coffee table, and the fact that cleaning rags lived in the old peeling fireplace.

"I gotta say, I like the way you say 'hello' in this country," her words are out, croaking lowly and flirtatious as he grinned something fierce in response, stepping pointedly over her coat to make his way to the kitchen.

Her gaze followed him, naturally, watching as he beamed back at her over his back, before she paused to take in the room.

It's only then that she sees it.

All that happiness and elation that he'd smiled into her was swiftly wiped clean in an instant, replacing it with a hollow weight. Heavy and yet not even really there – and all it took was the image of a photograph on a bookshelf. She really hadn't been looking at his place properly when they came in. She had been all butterflies and reprieve – but the butterflies were now dead and gone, leaving a rotten choking in her chest, as though the fluttering insects had been trapped to decay there on their escape.

Now, she found her attention drawn to a tall but narrow bookshelf, littered with all manner of books and colours. The entire room she was standing in was speckled with piles of books, some neat, others weren't, but somehow Emma just knew that the ones in front of her now were on display for a reason; deserved the prized shelf.

Just as the photograph of Killian and Liam that sat in the centre was there deliberately.

She noticed his reappearance at her side before she noticed the tears running down her own cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," it was a pleading, a desperate hope for the apology she could not voice earlier. "I don't even kn-ow, I don - I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, love."

She let out a frustrated groan, mangled with the sound of her tears, and began pacing back and forth between the bookshelf and the settee, running trembling hands in knotted hair.

"N-no, okay, you don't get to do that."

Suddenly the sparse décor of his place echoed everything: the anger in herself, the sobbing of her tears, the infuriating silence of his patience -

The culmination of her fears.

"What would you have me say, Emma?"

She contemplated this, listening as her heart bounced off the walls of the room. She wanted him to yell at her, to accuse her of anything, she wanted him to ask why. He didn't like her answer, scraping an upset hand through the back of his hair.

"Why?" He was only fulfilling her request, his voice tainted in the acrimony she was after and that was only put there at the insistence of her own blame.

There was a sob as her only initial response, the sound of it swallowing her first attempt.

"I-I don't know how to be that person," he didn't understand, the confusion evident on his face. "I don't know how to be that rock that you see when you look at me. I have never been that person, I'm just this unwanted thing that doesn't belong anywhere. You were the first person in twenty-one years to not do that to me, to actually make me think that maybe I was something to somebody. That I could be _chosen _and to not have taken it away again when you regretted it?Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? That's why I ran. I wanted to be here, but I was too scared."

Emma couldn't for the life of her remember when she'd confessed so much. Her nerves were shattered, well and truly, not even with the strength to do much more than whisper her unresolved problems at him. She certainly hadn't voiced her own abandonment issues to him before, though he looked unsurprised and she was forced to wonder, once more, just how good he was at emotional parkour, navigating her walls with such ease.

She couldn't figure out why he wasn't more upset with her, noting instead the mitigating stare, watching as he instead made steady, barely sauntering movements towards her. If it were Emma she would probably have given him the cold shoulder and more than a couple of frosty glares to voice her dissatisfaction. But he?

"Emma, listen to me, if that were even remotely true you wouldn't be here right now standing before me. You are so much stronger than this person you seem to think you are."

Maybe there was an element of truth in his words, but she was only here because she'd dragged herself here to him. Forced herself against every fear - through every station, through every security check - that this was the right decision, that seeing him again and crossing hundreds of miles to do so, wasn't something she'd regret. But maybe, if dragging worked, drag she would.

"I can't keep on being scared of everything. I can't keep letting it do this to me, or to you – it's gotta stop."

She wiped her own tears from her face, angrily, whispering the words forcefully as his hand decided to move gently - encouragingly - through her hair, seemingly out of place with the rapid whirring of her heart.

"One day," he started, an impossibly small smile across his face. "One day, you will learn of all the things that I did out of pain and anger that Liam literally dragged me out of, and you will realise that you missing his funeral isn't even comparable, love."

Ring-studded and compassionate fingers lingered as he tucked her hair back behind her ear.

"That, and I'm not fond of hypocrisy."

She had certainly not been expecting him to say that.

"Son of a bitch, you didn't go?"

"You are astute"

She had no clue why this made her happy. It shouldn't have, and it was definitely something that she wanted to talk to him about. Yet, now she couldn't. In fact, she couldn't take her eyes away from his; all she seemed to be able to do was look at him with a deep sense of hope. Honest, straightforward _hope. _In the same split second they made the same decision.

He kissed her first this time – and it was strong, and reassuring, and she held on tightly, to not only his hips (flush against hers), but the message in that kiss.

(_It's okay, Emma._)

(_Just don't do it again._)

(_Surely it's too warm in here for that sweater, Emma._)

They struggled with their clothes – a lot – their hands too eager for the pure and simple sensation of flesh, that they kept getting in the way of each other. (The buttons on his vest were a serious pest). She continued to not pay attention to the house as he led her straight into his room without proper introduction, stripping off item of clothing after item of clothing as they went. She didn't even remember falling onto his mattress, only suddenly aware that her legs were up around his hips, feeling him there and wanting, his hands trying to rip off her boots - until he gave up, her giggling at his folly earning her his fake annoyance.

(_"You sure you've done this before, buddy?" "Casanova himself would struggle with these bloody shoes.")_

He knelt, as she sat up on the bed, to better strip away the last of their proverbial armour. Killian struggled to look her in the face as she tore off her bra and the rest of her underwear, flinging them over his shoulder and smirking playfully at him. (Hope was a funny thing). Then they were back down again, Emma's head falling gently into a checkered pillow as they reattached together at the mouth, tongue entreating tongue.

They were a mess.

A mess of limbs and hands struggling to get under the covers, and over the curve of her arse; a mess of heavy breathing and gibberish whispers as her hands similarly ventured (_"Protection?" "Don't worry, got it covered." "Okay, is there in any point in – fuck, Emma."_).

It was the way he was looking at her more than anything else, with reverence and the incredible seriousness that made her hands shake, her breathing far too flustered to attempt composure. It was almost like he knew, choosing to deepen the kiss, palm cupped around her face.

Not that that lasted too long - he kept trying to kiss his way down her entire body, dragging languorous kisses down her neck, the underside of her breast, her hips, her thighs – and she struggled to keep him in place around her face long enough to kiss him back.

He resigned himself – without argument, to be fair – settling the direction of his kisses where she could reach him, opting instead to use the venturing of his fingers to find where she was warm and similarly wanting (so that she was biting back whimpers with his thumbed strokes and exploratory curling). There was a rampant need growing (as his fingers knew well) to match the need in her heart, and while they struggled – to get to this point, to get their clothes off – at a certain point (somewhere after she tore his tongue away from her peaking nipples) their rhythms properly came together.

She'd forgotten how this could feel – how it could assuage rather than numb, how oddly inviting the scratch of his thick hair against her own chest could feel. Emma chased that feeling, welcoming it, arching into him in further silent encouragement - before he withdrew his fingers with a smirk, intentionally leaving her hanging.

He seemed to settle a little, having gotten over what she was sure was the initial shock of her in his bed, his face flushed red right to the tips of his ears – he looked wrecked. So, maybe, it was less about finding a rhythm, and more about them catching their breath, as his eyes searched hers curiously for something. Emma helped him find whatever it was by biting the scarred bone of his cheek and running calm nails down the sides of his chest, feeling with satisfaction the goosebumps left in their somehow mollifying wake.

So he thrust inwards, creating an unforeseen duet of his cry and her own.

She found it hard to focus on just one thing after that. There was too much going on, too much building: his teeth on her neck, his fingers clasped in hers by the sides of her head, their pounding frantic hearts -

The drag of him inside her, hitting spot after spot.

As she gasped and sighed (and let forth tiny moaning keens to match his own), Emma wondered if maybe – just maybe - there were really good arguments to be made for opening up the walls of her heart.

.

They'd done this before: stand awkwardly in the kitchen. Though, the differences between those two occasions were staggering. The first time they'd been tired and bereft. This time they were tired, but smiling coyly each time their eyes met, cheeks red with satisfaction (rather than with heavy sadness).

Emma preferred this time infinitely, far more at peace with the way he moved about his kitchen than the way he'd hollowly ambled round hers. She also preferred it, to be perfectly honest, because he was simply wearing a pair of boxer-briefs while she hung about wearing nothing but his shirt (and it really wasn't_ that_ much bigger than she was).

(God, she was too fantastically spent to care.)

"So," he had to clear his throat for a moment, worrying the spot behind his ear with his fingers in a nervous gesture, before continuing his train of thought with bravado. "You chased me to England. Grand romantic gesture, Swan - I'm flattered."

"I did not chase you," she tried to sound indignant, really she did, but it only came out frisky, smile once again betraying her outcry.

"You're a terrible liar, love. You must have missed me a lot to come all this way; to seduce your way into my home," he continued to tease her with the wriggle of his brow, the wry and derisive expression on her face doing nothing but spurring him on. "Definitely looks like you're running after me, Swan."

The kettle firmly in place upon the gas stove to heat, he took two very particular strides, coming once again right into her personal space and making himself at home there. (And if his fingers drifted under her shirt, she wasn't going to complain.)

"I do not run after people."

"Is that so? Nonsense. You were probably just sitting on that green stool of yours, pining after me, hoping against hope that I'd burst through that damned door –"

"I was _not _pining."

"- sitting there, in your home, missing me and my devilishly handsome good looks."

She was flat out denying all of these things they both knew to be true - but something gave her pause. Emma was _so _tired of running, of that topic they'd thoroughly exhausted (and expanded upon with their heads on pillows and their bodies entwined). Though it had only been a handful of years to reel from the betrayal of Neal – and a bucket-load of other life events that lay unspoken and still broken – those years had still exhausted her immeasurably. There was something about the blue-eyed boy in front of her, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, tongue playing behind his teeth, that reminded her that she didn't have to be so scared of not yet being completely put back together.

Vulnerability was still an option.

"It was never my home."

His smile softened considerably at her (already obvious to him) confession, and the bouncing of his feet stopped their motion. Her fingers found themselves in the tangled grasp of his, as he brushed a quiet kiss and a quieter still message to the sharpest apple of her cheek, smiling if the curve of his lips were anything to go by.

"Home is where the heart is."

She ripped a hand from his, thwacking him squarely on the shoulder for his cliché, shooting him another wry smile, and effectively snapping the quiet moment he'd attempted to create in two. He turned back to the kettle and chuckled.

"So, love, where are you off to next on your big grand adventure?"

There it was.

That small sentence that was there to tell her he was still unsure of where they stood. She couldn't blame him. She'd fought and fled and been so fickle, and despite the fact that they'd spent the past three hours (_what the hell, was it really that long?_) under the warmth of his stripy sheets, this was something they hadn't even broached.

Problem was, Emma didn't trust hearts – she had been resolute to never trust the hearts of others again. She hadn't had great experiences with them, to be fair. From the foster mother who had vehemently declared she'd loved her, only to almost get her run down by a car; to the parents who couldn't stomach her for twenty-four hours; right down to the boy, all goofy grins and broken promises, who ran in fear.

But he was none of them.

She pitter-pattered across the floor towards Killian, tenderly running fingers over the fading pink ridges she'd made on his back earlier with her fingers, satisfied by the deep humming he responded with before sneaking her arms around his waist and speaking into the muscles of his back.

"Any suggestions?"

The third decision Emma made that was worth noting, was that she, for a change, ran _towards _something.


	7. Epilogues

_*a wild epilogue appears* Hellooo. You guys were way to observant about the fact I hadn't whacked a completed on after that last chapter :p.  
>I'm too overwhelmed by every single thing that came with this story. But this is the end – the epilogue. Although, after talking it through with others, I am way too attached to this damn thing, so this little verse and their ragamuffins will be open to prompts and enquiries cause I know there are a lot of things left unanswered (so sue me, I like it that way). Every single teeny tiny follow, favourite, and the reviews that make me smile with embarrassment and glee have rocked my world. You're all enormous sweethearts.<em>

_I love you all._

_(Eat your greens.)_

.

Part 7: Epilogues

.

Three months. Three months, twelve weeks, an innumerable mass of sunrises awoken by the garbage trucks, midnight conversations and terse fights.

Yet, there was not a moment in any of those junctures where she considered leaving. It wasn't that she felt settled, or that the insecurities vanished – far from it – but she wanted to be there, she wanted to try and smother those fears with his smiles, with the touch of his fingers between hers as moral support.

Killian was happy to comply, never pushing her into things, never asking for more than she gave, gleefully accepting every little part of her that she wanted to share, helping to suppress her worries (and the cold) with his feet tucked against hers.

And as it turns out, he had plenty more suggestions for where else Emma could go – and absolutely all of them included him.

They were mostly castles (ruined and rubbled), quiet towns and bigger cities, gaping ocean views, and adventures of a different kind entirely that didn't even require leaving the apartment. There was no rhyme nor reason to where they went half the time, and more than once they had simply pointed at a map to see where they would go. This method (tried and tested with Neal, but with a little more success this time round) usually yielded good results - ambling countryside, seaside picnics - but once or twice they ended up in an industrial district, laughing and not even caring about where they'd ended up.

He was doing better, she thought. In the same way his presence seemed to quell her own kind of storm, she anchored him in place, trying as best as she could to keep memories of Liam at a happy medium and to not let him get swept away in a tide of emotions.

The adventures they had were good for both of them. He had always sought journeys and adventures, had told her so even before their first kiss, and she knew it helped him feel a little more at ease, a little less trapped by his memories. It was why he never once judged her when the restlessness set in, or when she suggested they go somewhere new.

(But it was always they, never she, never he.)

It was why he hadn't worried when she came home one day with a car (and a large bouquet of carnations and forget-me-nots).

The car. She had been so happy when she'd seen it, sitting beside an old stone wall, a strange assortment of flowers inside the open boot and the sign 'Flowers (& Car) For Sale'. It was beaten up, and it was perhaps a little too wide for the country lanes – but the old yellow VW was too perfect to pass up. It was almost identical (reversed driver's position for British roads excepted) to the one she had had so many years ago – had stolen so many years ago – and a strange sense of fortuitousness and sentimentality overwhelmed her when she saw it.

Emma absentmindedly wondered if she should have felt disdain rather than wistfulness for the car that reminded her of the boy she hated – but she couldn't bring herself to.

Besides, the car was just another symbol of freedom. The freedom to make trips on a whim, and the liberating sense of abandon without abandonment. The need for a jaunt to unexplored places roared through both their veins, she knew it did, and the car helped them scratch that itch.

(And the car cemented her place even more. Up until that point, most things had been on his terms – his flat, his town, his country. While none of 'his terms' dissuaded her from being there in any small amount, it was nice to have something that she could contribute.)

Fortunately, it didn't cost much to run (but it hadn't broken down yet), and was at their beck and call whenever the urge took them.

Just as it had been the day he almost told her he loved her.

She let him drive mostly, preferring not to drive on the unfamiliar side of the road down the motorways. The only downside was that all these road trips and her reluctance to embrace their left hand side, opened up a wide range of idioms he insisted upon still teasing her with, tongue between his teeth - cliché after cliché. (_"You can do it, love, it's just a bump in the road." "I'm not talking to you about this again, let's just hit the ro – really?!" "You can't blame me for encouraging you – the road to hell is paved with good intentions." "Just- just stop."_ )

This particular trip had been all his idea, an adorable indulgence for his bookishness, and she was more than happy to comply. She was never really sure which part of their ventures she enjoyed the most, whether it was the places themselves, the drives, or the boy forever at her side.

Perhaps, what it was, was that the places they always went to were amazing, and she certainly tucked away the memories of vast cliff faces and tiny brooks; she loved the drive, loved the freeing feeling of hills and cows as they blurred past; but maybe, it was ultimately just allowing herself to experience the whole thing with her walls down (or at least at half-mast), trusting him implicitly.

Cornwall, they were going to Cornwall, and as they reached the highway turn off, he'd rolled down the windows, the cool country air blustering in through the car, and without even realising what she was doing, her hand was on his arm, fingers dancing lightly under the hem of his sleeve.

_Jamaica Inn._

He didn't even bother playing down his excitement as he summarised the plot for her, a wry grin curled on his lips, and a little sparkle in his eyes as he told her about sailors, nere-do-wells and romance on the English moors, arching his brow irritatingly as he did so. (_"You know, for someone who worked in bookshop for over six months, you know surprisingly little about books" "Hey!"_)

His suggestive pandering was completely unnecessary at this stage. It'd been six weeks since she'd clambered across the Atlantic, and every day they shared the same bed (or couch, or hard surface, or shower – wherever it was they ended up losing themselves).

When they got there, the place itself was simply an inn, the pub portion of it all dressed up to meet the touristy needs of the book. The gift shop itself was littered with pirate paraphernalia, and he came sauntering outside to the courtyard, beers and table number in hands, and a fake pirate hook dangling off one of the loops of his jeans.

Aside from the enthusiastic rant in the car, he had tried to reduce his excitement about coming today, and Emma knew because she'd seen it before. He had been exactly the same way at the book reading all those months back, a quiet buzz shining in his eyes, his saunter a little lighter, and yet it was restrained. That nervous tick of his, scratching behind his ear, frequently gave him away.

"Fancy a little pillaging and plundering on Bodmin Moor, love?"

She took her drink from him, ignoring his devilish smirk by glancing down at the amber liquid (and somehow still blushing at the gravelly sound of his voice).

"You wish."

He plopped himself down, facing the opposite direction to her, but not before leaning into her ear to whisper.

"Oh, you have no idea."

She swung around on the bench to join his perspective, staring out across brush and moors, the paling green-yellow of the grass weirdly picturesque in its baron nature. It was strange, a breeze building slowly around them, and the echoed laughter of others in the courtyard, the noise carrying across into the hills before them – strange because it wasn't. The breeze should have chilled them, but it didn't, the pleasant Spring air simply drawing them contentedly out of their jackets. The dried and foreboding grass in front of them did not make them feel at all desolate, but alive.

They had never gone anywhere with a literature theme before (well, not if you don't count Stratford-upon-Avon), and it felt strangely different, almost more intimate - the nature of their relationship so heavily built around fictions, fantasies and novels. They were each themselves a kind of novel; unwittingly writing their own chapters simply by living. A small little ache twinged in her chest at the thought, wondering if their literary themed getaway meant the same to him, if he thought about these things as much as she did.

(Although, secretly she knew that it would; that he did.)

Not that they never talked about books, on the contrary. They were hard to avoid when the place they were living was so cumbered by them; not when they both found themselves frequently drawn into the old second-hand place they'd met on her first day here; not when a certain _God of Love_was sitting on their bedroom floor, makeshift acknowledgments page reattached with sticky tape.

He was staring at her now, an arm around her shoulders, hand faintly running through her tresses, and a look up to him told her she knew what was on his mind. It wasn't an unfamiliar look. She'd seen it so many times, even as far back as when they were in the US, and it never failed to knock the breath out of her. She could see the emotion swirling behind them with trepidation, the way they tempted the words behind his lips. There was little reason as to why it might have overwhelmed him now, sitting after a long drive, each with a barely touched beer in hand - but there was no rationale to the timing of love anyway. The moment, the gesture, the look - the combination was both soothing and fiery, little sensations heating her scalp and her cheeks, and she wondered how it was she still felt like this after so long.

(It was stupid, and sappy, and overly romantic, but she'd be damned if she could get rid of the feeling.)

His eyes, definitely no longer teasing and flirtatious, held a different kind of promise to his earlier words, and she waited for him to say it, her free hand finding itself on the corners of his face – but they both waited too long.

"Two ploughman's lunches?"

Their food arrived, and whatever courage had brewed in him disappeared – though his grin didn't, and it remained toothy and mischievous all the way home, the little lines of his smile that she coveted so much, stinging her with sentiment.

And if he was surprised to hear her call it that – home - (_"Do you want me to drive the way home?"_), he didn't show it.

* * *

><p>Their biggest fight in those three months was brought about through a common enemy, one that most human beings detest: money.<p>

Only, for both Emma and Killian, it was not so much the issue of money itself, but the set of fears and strains that it brought to light, and their individual and collective inability to know how to deal with them.

For Killian, money resurfaced the memory of Liam, and the fact that he was still yet to do anything about his brother's boat.

But, for Emma, it was the dwindling of her savings, losing it to bills they shared, the groceries they bought, the petrol they drove with. The crux of it, came to the fact that getting a job would bind herself even more to this place, with him - and that was what scared her the most.

Not the commitment, or the fact that it was him – she had pressed mute on that particular voice in her head when she bought the plane ticket – but it made her fear getting comfortable, fear that she would suddenly feel like she belonged. She was, essentially, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for Killian's affections to dwindle. If she allowed herself to become too comfortable, when it fell apart as it often did for young people, she would in essence be destroying herself.

And that day, in the darkness of his own woes, he did not comfort her with gentle coaxing or deft touches as was his usual way. Instead, that day, he took offence and became angry with her. (_"Don't you trust me?" "Of course, I trust you." "Then, Emma, when are you going to bloody realise – I'm in this for the long haul"_).

They were both mad, at war with themselves and the world around them, so much so that the internal tension lead to tension with each other, which inevitably climaxed (in every sense of the word) with sex on the kitchen floor.

It was a wonder to Emma that neither of them said it then. Not when she was standing, arms akimbo and shouting desperately about how they felt about one another, and not when his voice did the same, chin set high and firm like stone, and his eyes dark. They had not even done it when they both snapped with an almost palpable crack, biting and devouring one another as they lost their clothes to the floor, and lost their hands to each others bodies.

Neither one voiced the feeling when the intensity in both of them seemed only worse with each roll of their hips - in fact the only thing they'd said then, that sounded anything like coherent words at all, was the heady gasps of their names falling from each others lips.

They hadn't even said it in the aftermath, with him still buried inside her, and their bodies flushed red and beaded with sweat, and their hearts still beating out the emotion against each others chests.

It was as though they had simply forgotten to say it, as though it was so clearly there that it didn't need to be announced.

It was impossible to tell how long they sat there, the handles of the kitchen cabinet denting uncomfortably into his skin, her atop him – and each of them gripping on as tightly as they knew how. It was late, and there was nothing to be heard from the outside except the quiet chirrup of crickets - but neither of them could hear the small creatures, too busy panting and gasping for air upon slate tiles. They hadn't even turned the kitchen light on when they'd stormed in, and the only glow drifted from the living room and over the countertop.

It was an eerily domestic fight for two twenty-one year olds who still hadn't told each that they loved the other.

(Not for lack of trying)

His breath was warm, exhaling unevenly, and intermingled with lazy kisses placed into the nook of her shoulder and collar bone, as though whispering voiceless promises, and she couldn't shake the agonising way she felt for him (not then, but also not ever).

She said a different set of words instead, still three syllables long, with her fingernails in the darkness of his hair and their bodies slowly calming.

"Don't sell it."

She couldn't be sure he'd heard her, so raspy and hoarse was her voice from the shouting, the crying and the moaning in the need for air and pleasure. One of her hands slid between them, resting among his pectorals and feeling for a beat with reverent fingers. And yet, he did not move, remained breathing heavily into her neck, easing himself from both the physical high and the emotional low – but his lack of response had nothing to do with why she repeated the words.

"Don't sell it," this time she punctuated the words a little more forcefully, emphasising her point with a lingering kiss to his temple. She knew he'd heard her this time, as he sighed deeply, his hands tracing shoulder blades.

"Don't sell it?"

His voice was quieter than hers and carried with it a certain intonation that she'd come to associate with one thing. There was a particular volume and raspiness that accompanied Killian's voice when he was thinking about Liam. Sometimes, she would hear it when he was chopping vegetables, other times when he was watching TV and Emma usually responded with a small kiss to his cheek, lingering on his shoulder with her hand.

(The first time she had heard it was at 2am at night, when he was the little spoon, and she was propped up on one hand, the other tracing the pointed line of his ear. It was 2am when he told her that he'd been completely tanked on rum, blacked out on the boat, avoiding attending Liam's funeral with a bunch of military officials, whom he now loathed.)

"Don't sell it."

They were both as bad as each other, bookmarking their problems for later, refusing to talk about these things until they quite literally overwhelmed them. He sighed again - a tired, satiated and sad kind of thing - before his hands found her cheeks, cradling them in his palms. His own eyes, grey and blue, met hers beseechingly, and with an openness she desperately wished he could see in hers.

"Don't go."

He seemed to hate himself for the way it came out, wincing and loathing the pathetic and dire croak of it all, the sound as small as the words themselves. She didn't know how to tell him that that was never what she heard. These bold gestures of his, mostly whispered with the simple desire to make her see his devotion, never once sounded despairing or pitiful to her ears. It didn't seem to matter whether they were spoken in a bookshop imploring her not fight him quite so much, murmuring hackneyed phrases in farewell, or whispering pleas on kitchen floors.

All she heard, all she _ever_ heard, was the voice of someone that, for once, furiously wanted her to stay.

(She wouldn't say it was why she loved him, but it definitely didn't help.)

And so she shook her head, hands finding themselves in a barely-there grasp of his neck, capturing his lips almost bruisingly with her own, and ignoring the fact that her knees were most likely also bruised.

"Not planning on it."

* * *

><p>He leased the boat out instead, to tourists of the Thames, and to those boating inclined – charging not too much through the nose, but still for a pretty profit. The decision eased his mind considerably, now able to keep that connection to his brother, finding an income that wasn't Liam's savings, and the ability to still use it from time to time.<p>

And Emma?

Emma wasn't really sure she could believe what she was doing, visa and resume in hand, walking through the doors of their local bookshop.

The place was just as dusty, dark and enchanting as it was the first time she'd come in, and she closed the door behind her with a gentle clang, smiling at the woman who she now knew semi-well. Emma walked around for a bit, gathering courage, quieting her own disbelief, and wandering down the biography aisle. There was one lying on the floor (not that it was the only one, this bookshop was a little more arbitrary in its display and order), some paperback with the giant words _Epilogue: a memoir _scrawled across the cover.

Killian had once told her that she was like a book, and her chapters often a mystery to him, and as she stared at the novel in her hands, Emma realised it had been a long time since he had used such analogy for her. It was true at the time, of course, certain stages sealed shut. But, those seals had somehow along the way become broken, open to his eyes and for that she was thankful. With him, as it turned out, the opposite of what she thought was true: opening herself up made it easier to trust those who stayed, not harder, now knowing he knew and still wanted her. There was no point in sharing bits - a preface here, a conclusion there – because it would never help him to comprehensively understand the girl in front of him. And it was hard, and she hated doing it, the words never quite falling from her tongue as easily or as eloquently as she wanted them to; and she hated the uncomfortable reeling feeling in her chest that was knowing he knew, and fearing he'd treat her differently. But ultimately, she could not fault it, could not fault the way he tucked it away to never use against her, or the consoling and always empathetic way he kissed her afterwards.

Emma put the book back on the shelf (it wasn't in alphabetical order, but then again, none of them were) and suddenly despised the idea that her own biography would have an epilogue.

She had no clue what she was doing with her life, had no clue what would amount to either her or Killian, or them. Emma wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know - would much rather leave it open ended and not find out what her characters were doing several months down the track. Nor did she like the idea that her life might be filled with more endings than beginnings. It was better that way. Sure, Emma was changing, Killian for his part was too, but to suggest that things were ending would be naïve, and daft, and illogical. Emma preferred to think of them as evolving – reasonably, that would make this the rising complication part of her story, rather than the conclusion.

She took a deep breath, cooling the nerves bubbling in her chest, and made her way to the front desk.

He was standing outside when she left, a bottle of milk in hand, an incredibly all-knowing arrogant smile creating little dimples on his face, and leaning on the back of a bench. She exhaled a sharp huff to mirror her own eye roll, but it only made him smirk more.

"Back to the books, eh?"

She smacked him lightly (a lazy exhausted slap, mirroring her exhaustion with such idioms), standing between his legs and putting her visa back into her bag. Emma was glad that she'd done it, glad that the boy in front of her had shaken her out of whatever it was she was stuck in; out of that weary mix of fear and stubbornness. She was also glad that she'd now have something to do when he disappeared (off to collage in July to complete some Summer courses, and make up the credits he'd lost in the chaos of Liam's death).

Emma watched him as he played distractedly with the buckle of the belt around her dress, grin still settled in place. She couldn't get over the casual intimacy they'd both fallen into. Perhaps, it shouldn't have been such a surprise – he, the perennial personal space invader, and she, (well, they) let her actions speak louder than words. With a cursory kiss of his lips, she returned his smile happily, an effortless satisfaction on his, as if the whole thing was his doing.

"It's just temporary, okay, until I can figure out what I actually want to do with my life, or what job I want to bind myself to."

Killian cocked a wicked sort of eyebrow at her words, and she couldn't help but bite her lip at his sheer cheek, the giddy feeling made worse by the satisfaction of having got the job (and all that that step had entailed). The decision of it – the job – had snapped a weight that was on her heart sufficiently in two, until the organ in her chest (still pounding with nerves) practically floated with the sight of him all crinkly-eyed in front of her.

(She loved him.)

"Yeah, yeah I know - _'If a binding is what you want, Swan, let me offer my services'._"

He chuckled in response, ignoring her terrible imitation of his accent, but still pleased with her interpretation of his lewd brow.

(_"I have taught you well, Swan." "You have not - I can flirt on my own, thank you very much.")_

"Anyway, like I said, it's just a job."

He put his hands up in mock surrender.

"No judgement from me, love – whatever floats your boat."


	8. Appendix 1 - Cook Books

_A/N: Bet you thought you'd seen the last of this. Apparently, I couldn't even stay away for a week. Thank you so much for all the wonderful words you all sent me with the epilogue I just want to be aggressively nice to you all._

_ I was all set to write something for __i-know-how-you-kiss__'s birthday over on tumblr and a little birdie told me she might like something in this 'verse. _ _So this little instalment is a special edition birthday one shot__. If you're curious about the cake, it's inspired by the 'Women's Weekly Children's Birthday Cake Book'. Almost everyone I know has had a cake from this book._

_Happyyyy Birthdayyyy Liiiz, my little chocolate croissant :)_

_._

**_Whatever Floats Your Boat_**

.

_Appendix 1: Cook Books_

.

It was an accident.

She must have put them on the table at least a hundred times before, kicking, resting and slamming her boots or bare feet against the wooden surface - but evidently, this was one time to many.

In the months they'd been living together, Emma and Killian had finally managed to clean Liam's place properly, and create some sort of organisation for Killian's ever growing personal library. The furniture in their apartment grew - the rug they had bought was particularly useful to cut out some of the annoying echo - but easily the thing they owned most of were books. Some of them had been moved from the boat before they started leasing it out, others had simply found their way out of Killian's boxes, and even Emma's suitcase.

(Not to mention Killian's insistence that this time they shouldn't let her staff discount go to waste.)

But the coffee table was the one concession to disorder that they made.

He had been quite attached and proud of himself for building the legs, sturdily out of an array of books that seemingly would not have seemed secure. They were mostly hardback novels – Margaret Atwood, Dickens, Ian Rankin – but many of them were wider more physically imposing books - atlases, recipe books, children's picture books (she had spotted _Animalia _there some weeks back under a Jamie Oliver, reminding her briefly of sadder times past).

However, it didn't seem to matter what kind of book was a part of it when Emma's feet hit the table, because the whole thing wobbled, collapsing in a massive spread on the floor. It'd almost occurred in slow motion, Emma cursing the thing and herself before it had even fully begun to sway. It took her a moment to even really react, groaning in annoyance rather than jumping up in shock - her life seemed perpetually at risk of toppling piles of books.

(And it was almost always his fault.)

"Really?"

She was half-tempted to leave it there, tempted to leave the whole disastrous thing as it was, making a point about the growing commotion of books that not even Killian could ignore. But he wasn't coming home for three days, and there wasn't a chance that Emma would live with it that long just to make a statement that he would undoubtedly only chuckle at, before pressing his grin into the pulse of her neck.

(They were still at that hopeless stage, where her irritations were half-arsed, and he seemed solely focused on coaxing smiles from her skin.)

And so she put it back together. It took hours, and Emma wasn't happy about it, grumbling aggressively at each book, splitting her attention between the rerun of _Great British Bake Off _ and creating increasingly unstable towers out of them (the more books in the pile, the more dubious their reliability).

And that was how she came across it – the second accident of the night.

It was an old and very fading cake book (_Children's Birthday Cake Book_), and looked as though it was conceived of, written, and photographed in the 80s. She couldn't entirely be sure why she opened it up, she hadn't even entertained the idea of perusing through any of the others, far more entertained with the strange bread challenge that was taking place on the television in front of her. Maybe it was the fact that she couldn't remember the last time she'd had a birthday cake, maybe it was the way the book seemed thumbed and worn in, maybe it was the baking theme from the TV influencing her.

Maybe it was just happenchance.

But open it, she did. A superficial flick through, observing the strange array of dolls and animals morphed into edible scenes – and then it fell out: a photograph.

Emma couldn't for the life of her make sense of why it would have been hidden there, so negligent and perfunctory, certainly considering the sentimental value that was evident within the photo. The colours of the image still bright and vivid as though they had been kept well preserved within the darkness of the book's pages for a long time, but the photo itself was incredibly creased. Small bends around the edges telling its sentimental worth, before she'd even focused on the image it captured.

Beyond all the smudgings of fingerprints, was the image of two small boys and the mother they both shared, gleaming at the image of a blue birthday cake.

It hit her so profoundly, the smile of the two young boys, the youngest of the two (a little chubbier than he was now), with his mouth pursed mid-candle-blow and she almost felt as though she were betraying some boundary by looking in on the scene; as though the memory was too precious to share. In part, that was due to the knowledge that Emma held, knowing that two out of the three people in the photo were dead, and that feeling only worsened with a careful glance at the dark-haired woman Emma had never seen and would never meet. She flipped it over, curiously hoping for more information on the reverse side, but was more than a little unprepared for what she saw there.

_Killian's 7__th__ Birthday, 12__th__ August_

* * *

><p>It was raining outside - England had a habit of doing that - and even though they hadn't predicted a storm as such, a loud clanging woke her and in that heart-pounding state of being rudely awoken, she wondered if it was thunder.<p>

It wasn't.

There was a boy in the kitchen slamming cupboards, swearing about the "bloody rain" and his "bloody shoes".

She should have been less surprised than she was, after all, she knew he was coming home that night. The agreement had been that every two weeks of the course he would drive back for the weekend (even though, more often than not, it ended up being every weekend), but he also had a Friday afternoon tutorial, which meant that his drive home was often late.

(He claimed to never skip the class, and yet somehow there were weeks where he got there hours earlier than he should have.)

While he sometimes crept into their bed, curling around her and mumbling genuinely sweet nothings (his tone was sweet and she was sure the words were too, but she heard none of them, lost to almost-sleep with his arm tucked under hers), other times she was awake and waiting for him, a lazy and excited smile to mirror his own.

And other times he awoke her rudely.

"Seriously?"

Killian had trod mud from the front door all the way to the middle of the kitchen, and as she glanced into the room, she noticed the boots that now sat unceremoniously in the kitchen sink. The rain outside simply pelted down, not caring at all for the inconvenience it had caused not only to his shoes and their floor, but to the strands of hair about his face. He would have looked relatively unsurprised by her presence and the tone of her voice, smiling at her widely and expectantly, were it not for the way his hand shot to his neck to scratch at it in a distracted and almost guilty manner

"Hi, love, what are you more annoyed about – the noise or the mud?"

Moving closer towards him, she danced about the footprints on the floor, avoiding the dirt and the wet in a semi-balanced, semi-disastrous way, and somehow managing to avoid the mess with her feet entirely.

"You know, sometimes I think about changing the locks on this place."

"Sure you do, Swan."

There was no precursor to the kiss he gave her in greeting; no flirtatious, light-hearted coercion; no warm looks; no lingering touches – not from either of them.

They didn't need it, two weeks was fourteenish days too many, and the kiss told them that quite clearly (not that they needed reminding), his hands lost as they slid under the hem of her pyjama shirt, and into the hollow beneath her chin. She had missed him, missed being able to cling to his shoulders with her arms, missed pressing her chest against his, and it hadn't been the first time they'd experienced distance (and the desperation it brought), and it wouldn't be the last time, but this open heart thing she was trying out meant she experienced it in a different way to before.

Experienced it more strongly, more painfully – the reward was more satisfying, though.

And his face was slightly wet, and his tongue inviting as it curled around hers, his stubble leaving little damp traces on her face with each heavy, loaded draw of her lips – but she hardly cared about the rain, not when there was the spice of him and the subtle sweetness that he tasted like.

(The kiss was so desperate, and she felt a restlessness in her bones, and in her feet - desperate to move this in a more horizontal direction.)

The sweetness though, there was something about it, the way it nipped not only at her heart but her curiosity. It made her pause.

Then, with a lick of her lips, it clicked.

"You've got to be kidding me."

He looked the very picture of innocence at her words, as they came out muffled against the cant of his mouth on her mouth. Emma was having none of it, she knew that taste, she'd been sick off it barely hours ago, and so moving to the fridge she opened up the door and pulled out the cake.

Yeah, she'd made the cake.

She'd never really been one for baking, but since seeing that photograph she knew that it was something she wanted to do, a gesture she needed to make. The photo itself had fallen out of a page with the recipe for a little train cake, the exact cake that seven year-old Killian had been blowing the candles of, and she had felt as though she'd had little choice in the matter. Emma had no clue what it would taste like: the sponge cake secretly lined with cream she was a little uncertain about, but the shape had come out surprisingly well, the steam train perfectly modelled, and its little carriages and carts that it pulled packed to the brim with an assortment of lollies. It looked nothing like the image in the book, but that hadn't been the purpose.

(She would probably deny the level of detail she had tried to stick to to the photograph though, even ensuring that the decorative and freight-carried sweets were the same as she could recognise in the picture.)

But it was the icing that she was most proud of, the bright blue had come out shockingly well, but amongst the sprinkles and the liquorice bits there was a very clear and distinct line across one of the carriages, which she didn't doubt for a minute would be the perfect fit for a certain dark-haired Englishman.

(If the shoe fits.)

And he didn't even have the gall to look guilty, instead he wore a completely satisfied cat-with-the-cream type expression, and where he wore mischief on his face, she wore the very image of unimpressed.

She placed the cake on the counter, half with a mind to grab a spoon and try and smooth out the layer of buttered sugar he'd terrorised, spewing forth a range of complaints as she did. Killian didn't seem to care, instead sauntering his way across the kitchen to stand behind her, grin still devilishly in place behind her shoulder.

(_"You couldn't have even waited until tomorrow?" "Aye, missed you too, love." "Killian." "Emma."_)

He kissed her again, turning her face with a gentle tug on her chin and her whole body following in turn, completely disregarding her feigned outrage, and while she tried to argue with him with each movement of their heads, with each breath between kisses – (_"I spent so long on that." "Mmhmm." "Hours with an oven I hate." "Mm-I know."_) – she kissed him back just as enthusiastically. Two weeks was a long time between kisses, and a long time to miss his fingers on the skin of her waist. She craved the action – the kisses and the wandering hands - that the taste of sugar on his lips had shaken her from, aching for the thing she'd grown to need: him.

He backed her into the counter's edge one too many times, and so she made to scramble up onto its surface, his arms moving underneath her thighs to hoist her up, her humming something akin to a whine at the momentary distance of lips.

But he met her again with a passionate bite that she'd missed, and she couldn't help but forget the battle she had been trying to put up with the cake.

Until she felt him stall, or more heard him stall, but suddenly his lips were gone, instead all she could feel was the gentle prod of his nose against hers, his fingers falling to the sides of her thighs and the rumble of his words.

"Swan, why have you made me a cake? And a child's cake at that?"

The last time Emma had had her eyes open he'd look utterly content, completely oblivious to the fact he'd walked through mud to get to her, and completely ignoring her indignation. Now, however, it was impossible to not see the cogs whirring in his mind, the curious but subtle look on his face almost wary of the answer.

"Because," her hands found his, twisting in and out of fingers. "Monday is your birthday, not that you bothered to tell me."

She had replied with a small smile, the easiness of their moment overtaking her – but he did not return her mirth, and suddenly every earlier sign of that mirth was gone from his face without a trace. Emma ached with having stolen that look - however intentionally - from him, and cocked her head searchingly at his own uneasy face.

There was no sparkle in his eyes, not even one caused by the light in the room, as he glanced between the cake beside them and back up at her face, and when the confusion on his face didn't waver, she spoke again.

"There was this old recipe book, and in one of the pages there was this photo of your seventh birthday. It was of you, your-"

"Liam and my mother."

He finished her words, clearly aware of the memory, and a little confirming 'yeah' escaped her lips. He tried to smile, but his mouth struggled to turn itself up at all, and yet, he seemed determined to pretend there was no gravity to the situation.

(But failed to.)

(He had not spoken much of his mother, he was so severely uncomfortable talking about himself – they were far too similar in this regard – but on the occasions that he did, he spoke of her lovingly, if distantly.

Killian was still yet to say anything of his father, other than there was one. Once upon a time, anyway.)

The rain outside was still consistently falling, the sound amplified by an open window, and amplified when he said nothing. Emma waited, needing him to say something, needing to know the gesture and the intrusion of his past were not unwelcome or that it was in fact an intrusion at all. He did not seem mad, returning the gentle thumb movements she was making against his hand back against hers, yet she contemplated his silence. Not simply the sad silence standing before her, but the lack of information about his birthday at all (not that she had told him hers, the entire conversation about birthdays had for some reason never come up, both of them far too caught up in everything else to pay it any heed).

Still, his fingers played with hers, and his eyes took in her face, and when she tucked him closer with the pull of her legs around his, he rested his forehead on hers, struggling with what to say. Every fibre of Emma's being told her she knew why he hadn't told her, knew what it was that he'd been evading - largely because it was the same thing that lurked in the background of most of his current dark moods.

"I should have told you," Emma only responded to his words with the shrug of her shoulders, the words soft though not whispered. "It'll be my first birthday without Liam, I was just avoiding talking about it altogether."

Emma took no satisfaction in her correct assumption (it was so often about Liam), and the ache written across his face settled in her chest - and she was determined to get rid of it.

"So, let's not talk about it."

She only had to tilt her face a few inches to catch him again, but when she did, what started out as a soothing, thawing gesture, became yet another unspoken gesture of love. Because she did – love him and mollify him - with her hands and her lips and her legs about him, she thawed him; softening her own heart in response to the softening of his.

(They had told each other at this stage, tirelessly, and the words were repeated often, to the point where they – while still tingly and nervous on her tongue – came out naturally and involuntarily half the time.

But, when it all came down to it, they both still preferred the gestures to the words, preferred to feel the meaning of the words murmured onto each others lips than uttered in the space between them.)

And then she felt it, the cool and slightly grainy texture of sugar and butter, swiped once again from the train, and this time recklessly slid across her nose.

His joyous nature was back a little, and he looked so pleased with himself, Emma opening her eyes just in time to see him removing the remains of the icing from his finger.

"This," Emma gestured between them with the nod of her head, vision slightly hindered by a blue blurry haze, and the lilting tease of her tone. "This is how you repay me?"

"You're right, how unforgivable of me – allow me to make amends."

Emma, eyes closed in laughter, knowing what he was going to do before he even did it, a contorted mix of amusement and vexation on her face as she felt his lips and the edge of his tongue kiss the tip of her nose, removing the icing before licking his own lips.

"You're so predicable."

(So clichéd.)

But she played along anyway, figuring it was as good a use of the cake as any.

The train slowly lost icing, losing it to his bottom lip as she removed it with her own tongue; losing it to her neck as he returned the favour; losing even more to his ear lobe as she bit it, fumbling through the giggles as tiny sticky grains got stuck in the crevices of its shape. Emma thought she had done well with the icing - the texture was perfect, the taste not too sweet – and yet the whole thing was far improved with the further ginger of his skin, mingled with the taste of rain and the slow, lustful laughter that rumbled through his chest.

She may have used a little bit too much dye, however, noting with heavily-lidded eyes how the edges of skin around his lips were blue, matching his tongue, his fraternising fingers, his jaw – in fact, everywhere that had touched icing was a little blue. He only laughed more when she told him, mumbling it as she traced a nonsense shape on his collarbone, earning her a heavy gasp; a quiet groan, when she used a little too much tooth and claw.

Their game got worse (or better) as their skin turned somewhat bluer, as she lost her pants and in return received gentle, warming and blue kisses to her thighs. It was ridiculous, this give and take, and the way the heat flooded her veins, controlling her senses and making her entire body pine for his.

(She definitely loved him, it was easily more than fervour and need, and more about that sickening sensation in her gut, a sickeningly saccharine emotion that was more than just the sugar of the icing.)

(And it was addictive.)

But, it wasn't until she drew a blue shape in the low cut of her singlet that they stopped using the cake entirely and paid more attention to the coaxing kisses of his lips on her chest, her legs drawing him in further.

His attempt to return to the light-heartedness he'd walked in with had not been in vain, a giddy sort of daze influencing them, and yet the ache was not entirely gone - but every kiss, every brush of nails against his skin, and every movement of his hands in her hair chased it further and further away. It rendered them breathless, and sticky, and warm, from cheek to heart cockles.

The cake was quickly ignored (ignored and now mangled), the mud on the floor forgotten (despite the rain still trying to draw attention to itself), and the only thing that seemed to matter was that he was back, and she was here. Once again, Emma found herself hardly paying attention as Killian lifted her from the kitchen, narrowly escaping the dirty puddles on the tiles, and only really coming to when they fell over the edge of the bed.

(_"Thank you, for the cake - in case I forgot to say it." "Shh, thank me in other ways."_)


End file.
